


Nuances

by FelicityGS



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: ALL THE FEELS OKAY, Alcohol, Alien Biology, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, BDSM, COMPLICATED AND IT'S STILL WORK BUT GODS WHAT A GOOD WAY TO END, Communication, Developing Relationship, Dom Feels, F/M, Fantasy Racism, Friendship, Guns, Internalized racism, Peanut Butter, Pet Play, Post Avengers, Relationship Negotiation, Self Loathing, Strong Female Characters, Sub feels, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, THERE'S SO MUCH FOR THEM TO DO I'M SO PROUD OF THEM ALL ;U;, WHAT A FEEL GOOD FIC, and promptly shut down, aromantic hatespeech, bro feels, food feels, fuck working canon into my fucking fic after it's half done, happy endings all around, is briefly featured, is it okay to tag it fantasy racism? the jotun aren't actually real, natasha is aware this is a bad idea thank you, nonsexual bdsm, pre thor 2, pre winter soldier, self hate, so many bro feels, this is also a giant excuse to explore my jotunn headcanons, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:49:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 51,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicityGS/pseuds/FelicityGS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is here—in her safe house no less—and despite the complexion change Natasha isn’t sure what else he has access to. Even if he doesn’t have his magic, he looks like a mutant; all the world needs is Magneto or Mystique recruiting him to their cause. She can’t very well let him walk out, but she doesn't have enough time to get SHIELD here either.</p><p>Does not want SHIELD here anyway—this is a safe house, meaning away from them as well, and Natasha hates the hassle of moving locations.</p><p>(Or that time the worst decision she made all year actually didn't turn out so bad after all.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyNogs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNogs/gifts).



> Another Chrimmus day, another Yule present! 
> 
> This time for the lovely LadyNogs, who makes me squeal and totally encourage this massive book of a fic. I know life has been crazy for you lately, but I hope you're well and that you're having a great holiday season.
> 
> (Unlike the other fic, this one is much bigger and much slower. Chapter 2 is about 3/4 written and entirely unedited, while chapter 3 promises to be equally large. Alas. I was hoping to have it all done by now, but life has a way of sneaking up, doesn't it?)

The apartment is compromised.

She draws her gun in a smooth motion, eyes searching the space, nudging the door shut with one foot. The kitchen is the only entryway she can't see from the door—she knew that was going to be a problem. She'll beat herself up over it later.

There isn't anyone in the kitchen. If she's very lucky, there isn't anyone here at all—a burglary because someone noticed how rarely she comes by, already here and gone.

Natasha does not expect she will be very lucky.

She comes out the kitchen and pauses, adjusts her aim for the fact the person just come from the hallway is taller than her.

"Bravo, Ms. Romanoff. I would expect nothing less of you."

Loki. The bone structure matches, the hair, the voice. She doesn't remember the blue skin or red eyes.  His smile is wrong, creaking the edges of his usual mask. Three things out of place; it makes her hesitate.

Loki doesn’t give her time to try and place that extra element; he pounces, a difficult to track blue blur. Natasha ducks, thrusting the heel of her hand into his ribs, and twists away.

Loki follows the motion, adjusts for it, and she finds herself hitting a wall—but he doesn't disarm her. Interesting. She rolls to her feet, putting distance between them, and his eyes flick ever so briefly to the newly aimed gun, but he doesn't make a move to get it out of her hands and it doesn't make him back down.

If anything, she'd say he seems _pleased_.

"Loki," she says, but he cuts her off by attacking again, wide and open—it would be an all too easy shot.

She doesn't take it.

Instead, she dodges aside again, keeps dodging, taking in Loki's growing frustration and even _desperation_ , thinks of how Thor said adopted, what Thor has said of a certain people that share the trait _blue_ , connects it to the jaggedness of Loki's smile. Her mouth tightens slightly; Natasha dislikes being used.

Of course, she might be wrong, in which case this is one of the single stupidest ideas she's had this year.

She waits for Loki to get close enough—not difficult—and grabs a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back and shoving the barrel of the gun into his throat. She should absolutely not be able to pull this move off, let alone hold it, but she does and she can; Loki’s face goes lax with _relief_ for half a second.

“If you want to kill yourself, here,” Natasha says, letting go and stepping back. She flips the gun over in her hand, offering it to him.

For a moment, she thinks putting it to voice may have been too much, but no. Loki doesn’t grab her, only tightens his hands into fists, eyes shining and teeth gritted.

“Good show though,” she adds, and she isn’t even being dishonest. She suspects near anyone else would have missed what was wrong with his smile and shot him first, before he had a chance to attack.

Loki smiles tightly, glare sullen. He knocks her hand and the proffered gun away, eyes carefully avoiding looking at the motion. No, not the motion—avoids looking at his own skin. Interesting. This whole situation is interesting, and the part of Natasha that enjoys collecting knowledge and information with ruthless efficiency is intrigued.

“What,” Loki finally asks, “gave me away?” He’s studying her, but there’s honest curiosity underneath his annoyance. She respects him, a little, for wanting to know.

“Your smile. You looked at the gun when I aimed it at you. You didn’t disarm me. You let me get the gun to your throat.” Natasha ticks them off one hand, holstering her gun with the other. He snorts at her list, looking away, starting to pace and then stopping just as abruptly. “Seeing as you aren’t going to kill me, do you want to explain what this is about?”

“That is rather presumptuous of you, Agent Romanaoff,” Loki says, eyes focusing sharply on her, baring his teeth in what almost passes for a grin. Part of Natasha, quiet and kept well controlled, finds the look fearsome—whatever reason Loki looks the way he does, the red eyes stand bright against blue skin, and his teeth are sharper than a human’s. The grin stretches the lines on his face, makes the curves as angular as his cheekbones.

“Then this is the perfect opportunity for you to monologue before you try to take over the world again.”

That gets a startled laugh, him reaching to put his fist to his mouth before he notices his hand—the blue, she thinks—and frowns, amusement dulled. He glances at her again, studying her while his face stills, unblinking.

“No,” he says, “I don’t think I will, even if convention says I must.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

“What, do you think I’ve never touched a Midgardian book before?” Loki scoffs, tilting his chin up a bit imperiously—but she can see a little of a precocious boy underneath it. “No, Agent Romanoff, I will not make the mistake of underestimating you a third time.” He studies his nails, lips twitching down slightly in distaste, and Natasha realizes that these are habits—the fist to his mouth, studying his nails, pacing—and he is either relaxed enough or distressed enough to not realize what he’s doing, or what they convey about his situation.

“This is your punishment,” Natasha says, making a quick gesture to encompass all of him. Loki shrugs, attempts at nonchalance, but his shoulders tighten, and the anger in his eyes only makes him more intimidating. She thinks of what Thor has said again—Loki being adopted, stories of frost giants and old fights, of Earth’s last ice age. Thor circles around frost giants—Jotnar, he calls them—with the same guilt she’s seen Stark regarding his old weapons manufacture. If it’s because of Loki, whom Thor still loves dearly, then it makes things a bit clearer.

“Perhaps,” Loki says, but he’s lying; Natasha is sure of this.

Natasha shrugs like she doesn’t actually want to know what is going on, but it does leave with her another problem. Loki is here—in her safe house no less—and despite the complexion change she isn’t sure what else he has access to. Even if he doesn’t have his magic, he looks like a mutant; all the world needs is Magneto or Mystique recruiting him to their cause. She can’t very well let him walk out, but she doesn't have enough time to get SHIELD here either.

Does not want SHIELD here anyway—this is a safe house, meaning away from them as well, and Natasha hates the hassle of moving locations.

She makes a show of examining his features, lets her eyes trace over the lines that mark his face, and he scowls at her, brows tight, stepping back.

He doesn’t want anyone seeing him, either, perhaps just barely less than he wants to see his own skin. Natasha can work with that.

“Enjoying the view?” Loki asks, but there’s a tremor of defensive anger under the mockery.

“You came here because you were trying to think who would be most likely to kill you if provoked. For whatever reason, you can’t or won’t kill yourself.” She lets her voice slip to analytical—she suspects it’s less likely to set Loki off. “You don’t have any resources. It’s unlikely you have access to your magic, otherwise I suspect your appearance would be a bit closer to how you last appeared.”

“Very good, Agent Romanoff,” Loki says, dipping his head slightly towards her, eyes narrowed.

“I have no intention of killing you. Do you have any plans past that?”

He shrugs.

“I am sure I will make do.”

“Stay here.”

“ _What_?”

“Stay here,” Natasha repeats. This is a worse idea than the one she had during their fight, but she also has more observational evidence to back it up—namely how Loki keeps getting uncomfortable when she makes it obvious she’s staring, and his distaste when he sees his bare skin. He wants to be seen like this as little as she wants him running loose; it’s different entirely from the grandstanding and attention seeking behavior he displayed before.

It is also, she will admit, entirely selfish—if Loki takes her up on the offer, she will be able to keep her safe house a secret from SHIELD, avoiding the hassle of finding and setting up a new one. That it will keep Loki from causing more problems on Earth is purely a bonus, a pragmatic solution for both parties.

Loki is looking at her like she’s gone utterly mad; it makes her smile, because it’s such an… _innocent_ reaction.

“And do _what_ exactly?” Loki asks, but she’s got him—he’s interested. If his curiosity is anything at all like hers, then that should be all she needs. He doesn’t seem to have the ability to just turn it off the way she can when working.

She shrugs.

“You are more insane than I thought. Pity that it isn’t useful.”

“You’re stalling,” Natasha says; he looks sullen that she realized. “Stay here. Or don’t.”

“This is a hide out,” Loki says. Natasha nods, because there’s little point lying to him about it. At the least it might convince him a bit more she has no desire for anyone else to learn this location. “You would no doubt have _rules_.”

Natasha shrugs with one shoulder, tilting her head with the motion.

“Well out with them.”

She does not allow herself to smile at his impatience. Clearly if she won’t kill him, somewhere to go to ground is just as good.

"First, I can add rules as needed." Natasha pauses, then realizes she doesn't actually have any other rules.

Loki cocks an eyebrow when she doesn't continue, then smiles. It's genuine; where his scowls make the lines on his face hard, the smile softens them.

"With such gracious terms, how could I refuse?" he says; he's mocking her, a little, but she smirks anyway.

This is going to backfire spectacularly.

***

Loki is a frost giant—Thor has at least confirmed as much, shortly after his most recent return from Asgard.

There are very likely a number of internal issues related to the fact—Natasha is no stranger to rediscovering the self abruptly and it being someone a great deal more monstrous than who she thought—but she has little interest in addressing them. Supposing Loki manages to stay long enough and they don't murder each other, there will be plenty of time for _him_ to deal with those issues later. No, she is a great deal more interested in the immediate practicalities of housing a frost giant.

"What do you eat?"

"I am not a _pet_ ," Loki spits, then slams the bedroom door in her face.

Natasha stands outside the door, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. The door at least didn’t crack.

"You're being difficult," she tells the door.

She doesn't expect a response; instead she walks to the kitchen and begins to go through the cabinets. There isn't much in the way of fresh food, but there's plenty of nonperishables and Loki must have eaten at some point in the last day.

"What are you doing?" Loki asks from the door. He's dressed; Natasha recalls how quickly he got out of sight when she arrived, compares it to the fact he had been shirtless when she came in, and files away that she is going to need to make sure not invade wherever in the apartment he’s decide is safe. Probably the bedroom.

It’s likely for the best she doesn’t sleep here often.

“Seeing what you eat,” she replies. Except she’s beginning to suspect he hasn’t.

“I am not a pet to be fed and watered,” he says again, resentment better hidden this time.

“I also recall telling you I wasn’t going to kill you. Seeing as you are currently stuck in the apartment, negligence is a possibility.” Natasha closes the last cabinet, turning to face him.

“I recall no rules of needing to stay.”

Natasha raises a brow and looks at his hands, but she doesn’t voice the point. Loki scowls and crosses his arms, straightening from where he’s leaning; she expects he’s about to stalk off again.

“You’re right,” Natasha tells him before he can. “There aren’t any rules about you leaving. You can walk out at any time. But as long as you’re staying here, you’re my guest.”

That works. Slightly. His eyes have widened, and he’s studying her with the rest of his face blank. Natasha can work with that—she didn’t expect him to be as abashed about guest rules as Thor can be because Loki is very much not Thor, but there’s something to be said for being raised in the same household.

“Fish,” he says, finally. He looks away from her, eyes roaming the cabinets. He looks like there are more words, but this is not the same Loki who talked for no other reason than to do so, who took a certain delight in it. “Fish,” he repeats, and then he leaves.

It’s much quieter, this time, when he shuts the bedroom door.

***

He should leave.

( _No. What he should do is what he did not before; what he should do is rend flesh from bone, should have taken her offer and her gun, should do this himself, except_ —)

He should leave. There is little to do, and he grows bored and restless (wants to claw at his skin, but then sees black nails and does not and does with such equal fervor that it leaves him dizzy), paces the spaces, wants for newness. The television can be interesting, but it isn’t _enough_

(monster, what should he care about enough)

and he should leave.

He has caused wars in this mood before, for no other reason than boredom, and he chafes at being restricted to only this space, these rooms. Three rooms, a bath (with now shattered mirror), the kitchen. He has walked worlds (look at him _now_ , hiding and caged and—) and this space feels so _small_.

(but if he _leaves_ , then—)

No. He is quite fine in the spider’s web.

(A bright spot of interest, bright as her red hair ( _red is_ —). Clothes, food, and—when he doesn’t hate her for seeing him ( _hate himself for allowing her to view him while he is so weak_ )—company.)

(He should be grateful.)

“You’re bored,” she observes, and he snorts and makes a gesture at the room, at the lone bookshelf with books he has already read

(he feels strange, off-kilter; exhausted, and he does not know _why_ )(does not know many things and _does not want to know them_ )

and tells her

“How could I possibly be bored with such bounties at my fingertips”

so dryly his lips feel they might blister.

She snorts—how that amuses him, almost… pleases, that she does not take offense, does not grow confused, has he wanted for clever company for so long?—but then it is a day later and there is a laptop and a phone with a single number. He raises an eyebrow at her.

“I thought you were only making sure I do not die, Agent Romanoff,” he says.

“I would prefer you didn’t tear the place apart because you were bored,” she responds easily, her hands skilled over the machinery as she opens it up to show him how it all works (oh what a delight, _newness_ and _unknown_ ).

“You would no doubt be cross,” he says (wants to say _I am no beast that needs be entertained else it pisses the rug_ )(today he does not).

“Very much.”

“You could simply make a rule,” he points out idly, watching as she types into the computer.

“You’d break it to be contrary,” she replies, and he laughs.

“Perhaps,” he tells her, still chuckling, and reaches for the laptop (fingers itch-itch- _itch_ , he _wants_ —).

She lets him take it with a huff, but there is no reproof, no words about taking _care_ , about how he does not know what he is doing—for a breath, a space, a moment, there are no thoughts, no tearing and twisting and writhing things that try to claw out of his skull

( _no blue_ )

and she gets up.

“I’m getting a drink. Do you want anything?”

He shrugs, fascinated by the screen in front of him (by human cleverness, oh how clever, worthy enough creatures indeed for all his talk of animals), another hand fumbling for the remote, for background noise, and he places her movement away only so much as he always is aware of those around him.

( _peaceful_ —or something like it, something close, tantalizing)

Except it’s ruined—as it always is—because nothing lasts forever (because he cannot touch anything without destroying it)

“Loki,” Natasha says, but she does not come in, does not—he can tell, her voice has stopped, she has, but he does not

(shame and anger; the ice crawling along his fingers—he _can’t make it stop_ )

move. Too hot, suffocating perhaps, but it is grounding and a reminder of what he _was_ , even as he watches ice crawl along his hands and he does not know how to stop it, does not know how to _control_ it, does not _know_

(does not want to know)( _needs to know_ )

and the ice thickens. He shudders.

“It’s easy enough to fix,” she says, but she does not move closer.

(some small part of him is grateful)

He should go. Leave. He cannot stay here. North—north there is dark and cold, is there not, some echo of how the realms are laid out.

“How?” he asks, because it has not even been the measure of a day. He makes his voice shake and lets anger fill it because it is ( _weak to be so affected_ ) not despair, because he is in truth angry and all the best lies are told with this measure of truth—even if the lie is only in his tone.

“I work with Stark,” she says. She says it amused, and he does not know if she is mocking him or if she simply wishes to make this moment normal. “There’s no tech he can't make. I’ve been known to take cold weather missions. Give me a day, maybe two.”

He snorts at that, but does not say anything. He closes his (red, they are red now) eyes so he does not have to look at his (blue) skin, closes his fist, and feels how the ice presses into his skin—skin that barely feels it, skin that feels so different from what he remembers (what he _knows_ ). How it thickens.

He hears her take a breath to speak and waits for words, cajoling, attempts to placate his anger (worthless, misdirected), and instead:

“I’ll be back soon”

and he can hear her move away, hear her movement, hear the door shut.

How weak—but then she has already seen him this way, has she not?

( _He should leave_.)

(he will. He will.)

***

“Stark, I need—”

“Absolutely not, I’m busy, how did you even get in here, you aren’t supposed to be able to get in here.” Stark pulls his welding goggles up for a moment to look at her, then pulls them back down. Natasha looks away before he gets back to work, examining the rest of the workshop before finding a chair to sit and wait him out.

"You're still here," Stark says nearly half an hour later.

"I am," Natasha agrees without looking away from her book.

He huffs.

"Fine, out with it."

"I need equipment that can withstand extreme cold weather. Tech, specifically. Laptop, phone." She glances up at Stark; he at least looks interested.

"You can buy that. How cold are we talking here?"

"Last time I was out this particular way, ice formed on all that cold weather tech on the market and ruined it." It's a bit of lie, but at the least it should account for Loki's apparent ability to spontaneously cover things in ice when agitated. She shrugs. "If you can't do it, you can't do it."

"Ah-ah, I see exactly what you're doing there."

"Me?" Natasha asks, stilling her face to wide-eyed innocence. It makes Stark laugh.

"Do you still have the busted equipment?"

"I thought you saw what I was doing."

"That doesn't mean I won't do it. There isn't any tech I can't make, now hand over the goods. When are you leaving?"

"Thursday." Not technically a lie; she will be going on a mission then, and it will be somewhere cold.

"Two days, I can work with that." He snatches the laptop bag from her, dumping the phone and laptop both onto one of the work benches, already starting to examine them. He gives a low whistle. "Hope you're dressing warm."

"Warm enough. Need anything else from me?"

"No, shoo." Stark waves a hand at her; Natasha smiles, private and to herself, and show herself out.

Easy.

***

He shuts the door behind him and stands still for a moment, hand still on the doorknob. The air feels… strange—too hot, nearly too hot (his mind thinks _no_ no this is the cool he grew up with, it is not _hot_ )(even the trees he can see are gold and red, vibrant—autumn).

He is not going to stay.

(He is yet Loki, and he does not need some mortal woman’s _pity_ —

“Oh, hello there!”

He looks up, caught, grateful that he is wearing clothing Natasha purchased and not his own, but still wary (wants to duck away, get out of sight, grasps for _change_ that used to hum beneath his skin and it slips away)(how he _hates_ ).

He forces a thin-lipped smile but he does not let his guard down. He is not entirely an idiot (has seen how humans will treat those who appear different, caught glimpse on quickly passed over news of mutants).

“Hello,” he allows, smooth (even if this makes it more difficult)(he should leave without anyone to see him, to make it so—)

“I was wondering what I’d been hearing. I’m your neighbor." She gestures and the bags she carries rustle as she points to her door; Loki does not point out he had guessed as much. She is short, perhaps shorter than even Romanoff. “Mrs Jefferson.”

“Lefferson,” he replies (because it is ready, because it mimics hers, because he has not _thought_ of this, thought of how to blend, names)(fully and wholly unprepared)(how does one blend when they look like _this_?). “Luke Lefferson. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

If possible, she beams brighter.

“Aren’t you a dear,” she says. “Oh, but silly me, holding you up, you likely have places to be.”

(Places—but does he?)( _like this, when people will see_ )(catches glimpse of his skin and thinks _no no no_ )

“No,” he says, the word escaping without his notice. “No, I was only just returning. Do you need assistance?”

( _Bored_ —he’d only be bored if he returns now, left with his thoughts (with _blue_ _and red_ ), perhaps she will be _interesting_ )

“Oh, I’ve a few more bags in the car, let me set these down and I’ll show you.”

(Perhaps she is a murderer, and she plans to (attempt to) kill him. That would be _interesting_.)

She is not, as it would turn out, a killer (he is only a little disappointed). Her home is… _warm_ (not hot, not, this is _comfortable_ , it is), and though the layout is the same as Natasha’s, the feel is entirely different, crammed to the brim with a mortal lifetime’s worth of goods.

(He wants to touch, to run his hands over the surfaces, to take down books so worn their spines are no longer readable—this is a trove, cluttered and full)(how he _itches_ , but he does not touch)

He helps her put away her goods (look how low he has fallen)(“No, dear, one shelf higher, with the pastas”), and before he can leave (undo this foolish choice), he is waylaid with a cup of something steaming hot ( _hot_ , burns his hands, and he leaves it politely on the table instead of risk touching it again, hands aching)( _tea_ she called it) that he most certainly does not risk drinking considering his current… _state_. But there is also a glass of milk, and (the _coup de grâce_ ) a plate of cookies. (Peanut butter, he has been told, but he isn’t even sure what peanuts are, let alone how one gets butter from them.)

They smell _wonderful_ , and he is intimately aware that he does not remember the last time that he ate.

(He has not desired to eat, has not been hungry, not the same way—hunger feels _different_ now, eats at his bones but not his stomach, if his stomach is even in the same place, and it is so very _easy_ to ignore).

“I meant to bring them by sooner,” Mrs. Jefferson informs him, setting down in her own chair with a cup of tea, “I just simply haven’t had the time.”

He blinks at her, unsure if he understands the implications (surely she did not make them to bring _over_ , to him, a stranger and one with his… appearance, no less).

“Well go on, try one. It’s been ages since I made peanut butter cookies, I think I might have made them a touch too salty, but not like I can tell these days. You get to my age your taste buds just go right out the window.” She takes a sip of tea.

Having nothing else to do (wanting for something to do with his hands _anyway_ ), he takes one. They are thankfully not hot, not like the tea he carefully avoids, and they are soft to touch. They seem to have some sort of nut in them—perhaps, then, it is not so unlike almond paste, made from crushed almonds.

The cookie tastes as wonderful as it smells, _more_. It is _sweet_ —he does not think he’s ever had anything so sweet (surely it is not sweetened with honey, which leaves the question of how it is sweetened), but more ( _better_ ) is the _salt_. His mouth waters (embarrassingly), and he finishes the cookie perhaps a bit faster than polite (wants to lick the crumbs from his fingers like a child, chase the last of the salt, makes sure not to lose _any_ of it)(is suddenly _ravenous_ ).

“They are quite perfect,” he tells her instead of making a fool of himself, reaching for the glass of milk (whole, she said, but he does not know what that means, either).

(Milk—he’d never much enjoyed it, before (when Aesir), but there’s something rich to it now, a different taste—a taste he most _certainly_ has never tasted before, much as he had never tasted salt (feels like he has never truly tasted salt before this moment), and it is the first (only) thing he finds pleasing about his form, these new flavours that make things taste _more_. This is _interesting_ and he can pretend it is new realms of experience no one else has ever explored, something purely _his_.)

It’s a pleasant enough way to pass the time, and she seems to have no expectation for him to do more than occasionally say yes or no (how ridiculous, that he finds this entertaining).

“Do you want some more milk, Luke?”

He starts (embarrassed)(did not mean to drink nor eat so quickly, but he still feels ravenous).

“No,” he says. He forces a smile, more honest this time, careful that it does not show his teeth. “Thank you. I should likely be getting back before… Natasha returns. I was not planning to be out so long.”

A few short moments later, he finds himself standing with a plate of cookies in hand, blinking in the hallway between the apartments and not entirely sure what to make of the little woman.

He was meant to be leaving this place.

(He cannot remember why. He feels… nearly relaxed, heavy from the milk and the cookies, feels as if he needs a long nap to recover from so little (how strange).)

He very nearly sets the cookies on the coffee table, then decides against it, taking them with him to the bedroom, setting them atop the dresser instead. No need for Agent Romanoff to be made aware of this little excursion out, certainly not as he decided to return after all (just for now; he will no doubt remember why he was leaving and change his mind once again). Besides, he has little desire to share them (he well remembers living with others).

There is some investigation of the ‘fridge’, but there is no milk—whole or otherwise, he certainly is curious about that—and he snorts. It likely spoils, it is clear enough this is not a place that is often lived in. An investigation of the cabinets yields a jar of peanut butter—'extra crunchy' (which means it has chunks of uncrushed peanuts in it—how pleasing)—and since he’s not entirely at the mercy of his stomach ( _yet_ ), he also gets a spoon. On the notepad on the counter (“ _Just write what you want_ ”), he adds milk, letters sharp and angular (how odd Midgardian script is with its curves). A moment, then he adds _one of each_ next to it, because surely there cannot be that many milks, and he wishes to find out what the difference is between whole and all of these others. Then peanut butter and peanuts—surely the source of peanut butter is equally salty (thus equally satisfying).

Investigation complete, if partially failed (unfortunate), he heads back to the room with a newer book—a spy thriller that Romanoff left behind, fascinating enough and one he has not read yet—and proceeds to settle himself amidst the blankets, cookies and jar of peanut butter by his side, and (for the first time) feels _content_.

***

Stark certainly cut it close—she barely has half a day before she’ll be leaving. At least it’s enough time to drop off a wider range of supplies as well as the tech.

If she’s perfectly honest, Natasha isn’t entirely comfortable leaving town barely two weeks after Loki arrived, but it isn’t going to matter if she’s in town or not if Loki decides staying hidden isn’t in his best interests. The laptop will give him the wide world of the internet to roam and stay entertained, the phone an easy way for him to contact her as well as what looks to be a near endless source of music.

Because _of course_ Stark decided that he might as well add as many bells and whistles as he could. She hadn’t expected anything less, including the not quite obvious tracking that she’d quickly disabled.

Loki isn't in the living room when she comes in. She sets the laptop bag on the couch, then heads to the kitchen with the handful of groceries she thinks might tempt him to eating. It's all educated guesses, extrapolating from what an ice realm might have for food, because she’s convinced Loki's change isn't just cosmetic no matter how Loki is acting like it is.

As she closes the fridge, she notices that the list she'd left out—that Loki had very much not added to, just like he hadn’t eaten the food she got the week prior—has been moved. She raises an eyebrow at it; sure enough, when she checks the jar of peanut butter is missing from the cabinets. She goes ahead and tears the page off, folding it and shoving it in her pocket—she should have enough time to pick these up before she leaves.

A quick check through the apartment shows Loki's in the bedroom—door left partially open and, when she looks, she can see one blue foot stretched past the bed in the floor. Asleep, probably; she leaves him alone.

***

She fully intended the trip to get Loki's list to be short. Absolutely. And it had been going quickly as she  grabbed a few jars of peanut butter and a can of peanuts.

The milk though.

_One of each._

She very likely shouldn't have. It's going to be an absolute pain to get everything up to the apartment alone. Glancing in the rear view mirror though, she can't help but smile. He really should have known better.

***

When he wakes, he feels like he is waking from a coma, disoriented, all time sense lost (feels as if he has fallen through—), and pushes himself up, breath heavy and too hot.

A bedroom. Midgard. Romanoff's. He is in the floor, blankets pooling around his waist ( _not falling_ )(tries not to shudder); catches sight of blue skin (shudders anyway) and closes his eyes. The blankets are damp when he fumbles blindly over them (thinks they are, he still is unsure if what he perceives as wet and damp is actually so). His fingers brush against the book he was reading and he grasps it tightly.

He was reading. He fell asleep while he was reading.

(When did he last...? A child, surely, he does not remember; how he _hates_ the way exhaustion steals over him now.)

He draws his legs close to him, gripping his shin with one hand tightly, realizes what he is doing—stops. Opens his eyes (empty, safe—no one to _see_ ), and does it again, pressing his face into his knees (allows himself to shake, shudder; forces himself to dwell-take in-move on—he fell once and it is done, he is caught in this form, he will survive)(how much _easier_ said than done).

(he can learn to live with this, can and will--he is Loki and it takes more than.. more than _his own skin_ to make him bow to Asgard's notion of justice.)

Eventually, he stands (forces himself to leave his shirt off, he cannot allow such weakness as the nausea that rolls through him mind and soul when he sees this now-skin).

Romanoff has been by—can smell the traces of her scent even if he lacks the words to name it. More, there are both a new phone and new computer set upon the coffee table, a note stuck to the laptop.

_Rule 2: no making explosives_

Well isn’t _that_ curious, but he supposes it is a valid enough request. Careful, he opens the laptop and then laughs as he sees what she left up, deep and from the stomach.

A... website, she called it. A website detailing how to make explosives with apparently common household goods on Midgard. How utterly delightful. There is another note on the screen, next to the website:

_I know you can, but don't. I actually like that apartment._

_I left up several tabs that might interest you. There's music on the phone—Stark is nothing if not thorough. There's a charger for both in the outlet by the side table._

Amused ( _pleased_ , because this leaves plenty for him to investigate), he turns his attention to the phone. He can tell, already, that these items are made differently—they are warm to the touch and seem to have no vents or openings to them. A bit curiously, he remembers the last set (sparks irritation)—ice crawls across the surface, but, unlike the others, the device doesn’t sputter to a stop. Indeed, he dares speculate that it was designed with exposure to such ice in mind.

How clever.

(He wonders what she said to Stark to get this, uneasy and wary.)( _Nothing_. Romanoff is clever, likely nothing that references _him_ , not if she truly wishes this place kept away, but _what if_ —)

He pushes the thoughts aside, leaving both phone and laptop on the table and heading to the kitchen. Focuses on his curiosity, because if Natasha has been by there is some (small) chance she noticed the list, though he is unsure how long she was here.

(It makes him uncomfortable that he did not wake, compared to prior, when so _little_ would wake him.)

Indeed she had—his list has been torn off, and instead her own curving script is on the paper, another of these little hints she has left that leave plenty for him to explore.

(As if she is aware what it is to be trapped in a single place. He is not sure if he is pleased or irritated)( _ashamed he needs such entertainment_ —that is easy to push aside; new experiences are a kind of knowledge)

_Peanuts and peanut butter are in the cabinet. Milk is in the fridge._

Excellent—he certainly is thirsty, and perhaps Midgard has goat's milk; he is curious how it will taste _now_. He opens the fridge, then stops, blinking and trying to process (mind goes _silent_ ).

He starts to laugh—more, deeper, _harder_ than when he opened the laptop, so hard he must lean against the fridge, head resting against his forearm. Laughs so that even the sight of his skin cannot disturb his simple _joy_.

One of each—he should have _known_ better. Jugs and cartons of various materials and labels, some brightly coloured and some not, side to side, across all the shelves and a few in the door. When he can finally manage to breathe, still smiling, he starts to sort through them— _soy, whole, 2%, coconut, sheep’s, goat’s, strawberry_ —and has to stop, chuckling, _because there are yet more_.

(Oh, how clever and how amusing, and suddenly he does not mind so, that it is her that he has found himself with, does not regret his choice or her decision—he may later, but now, _in this moment_ , he does not. He is too amused.)

Curious, he checks the freezer as well (almost _disappointed_ ), but while there is not milk there, there _is_ another note, laid atop a carton. He pulls both out.

_I was hoping you’d check here. This isn’t milk, but it’s made of it. Try it._

No, his decision to stay was not a poor choice at all.

***

Loki doesn't mention the milk to her, but when she drops by with yet another type--buffalo, a treat to track down--he smiles, honest and amused, almost childish glee bubbling at his edges.

"Still missing yak's milk," he tells her, lips twitching in the attempt at gravity.

Natasha nods, equally serious, and says, "Working on it."

***

Natasha can't say she’s surprised by the self-loathing or the volatility—she had observed both even with the first trip she got to meet him, before he started to live in her safe house.

She’s a touch more surprised the self-loathing doesn’t bother her more. It is, perhaps, one of the largest hurdles she had and has dealing with Stark; while it’s purely a result of her background, Natasha can’t help but feel it would be much more practical to set the self-loathing aside in favour of moving on. Pity it doesn’t work that way for the rest of the world.

Loki doesn’t quite manage her perspective, but she suspects it’s something he strives for, considering how absolutely stubbornly he’s still reading his book on the couch despite her arrival and his lack of shirt. He’s not looking up at her, his shoulders are tense and drawn in, mouth set in a thin line, but his voice at least does little to betray his tension.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks—she recalls him saying it earlier, and suspects she isn’t meant to.

“Yes,” she says, to see what he will do and because—if she’s perfectly honest—she does. Loki is all long limbs, but he still looks like liquid steel wrapped in flesh, panther-lithe instead of bear-broad. A predator.

Natasha is not ashamed to admit she has a type.

Loki looks up at her, scowling and brows drawn tight together; she catches sight of his muscles tensing in an aborted move to rise, and a little thrill of adrenaline runs through her veins.

“Do not mock me,” Loki says, a growl touching the edges of his voice—against his will, if how he suddenly goes silent and grows more agitated is any indication.

Natasha is also not ashamed to admit her type is a fairly active risk to her health.

“I’m not,” she says, moving to sit by him, watching how he can’t decide if he should draw away or threaten her. Oh this is far too interesting—she’s going to need to be careful. While this likely isn’t in her best interests, she keeps pushing, “You look dangerous.”

He keeps scowling, but he’s otherwise stilled so she won’t be able to get a read off what he will do until he does it—clever. He’s not quite so raw and open as he was two and a half weeks ago; even though she _isn’t_ sure what he will do now, it makes her smile.

“It’s a compliment,” she tells him.

“Did you know,” he says silkily, “that on Asgard they tell stories of frost giants to scare children?” He smiles, tiny and vicious, eyes unchanged and the lines on his face all sharp angles. “I am well aware of how I look, Agent Romanoff.”

Natasha considers this, then shrugs, standing again.

“Good,” she says. “I expect you realize dangerous things are beautiful too, then.”

He blinks, the scowl vanishing, face markings returning to light curves, eyes widening slightly. He licks his lips, brief dart of pale over jewel blue, but he doesn’t say anything; his jaw just tightens a little, annoyed, threat of violence gone.

“Perhaps,” he says, and she smiles, because she’s starting to recognize the way Loki says _perhaps_ is the way she shrugs to acknowledge a point.

She leaves him with his book and goes to get herself a drink and check the grocery list. Granted, other than milk and peanut butter, she’s yet to see anything else get added to it, but the moment she stops checking will be the moment Loki decides to throw a fit she isn’t looking.

***

There is more than enough to keep him entertained. Midgard feels vaster than when he first visited, and where once there were only tribes and thinly scattered kingdoms, now there may well be entire _worlds_ , bursting with languages and culture and music enough that he could spend _days_ studying.

Ants, he called them, but ants are not quite so fascinating.

Which leads to music (at first he attempts chronology, but time means so _little_ )(instead leaps back, from one sound to another, tracing patterns, delighted and pleased to slowly strip away complexity to simplistic roots), to television, to books, to anything and everything, throws himself headfirst into the rich rush of it all (forgets, for a while, himself).

It is almost _enough_.

(almost)

(notes, in between breaths, splash of red (like his eyes)(some days the thought does not fill him with loathing), quick words and a clever mind that makes it all _stop_ , for a spell—such a _fascinating_ mind)

Except it is not. His bones feel as if they itch (not hunger, which is slowly driven distant ache), he cannot focus—words blur and twist and suggest _other_ things, boredom slips and drips into the spaces. He steps outside, but the humidity feels like drowning and sticky autumn _heat_ (unbearable) makes him want to return straight back to the (cage) apartment.

(and at the front of all is _blue_ , blue that he sees in his peripheral, that he cannot _stop_ seeing in his peripheral, so that even if he tries he cannot help but _remember_ , mirrors or no—blue and red and _monstrous_ )

“Luke, dear, how are you today?” Mrs. Jefferson asks, smiling—

a distraction

\--and he says, “Bored,” says _truth_ before he can stop himself.

“Is that so? Why don’t you come to the store with me? Just need to pick up some things for the shelter, I have a few coupons, be a waste not to help someone with them.”

Amazing, how quickly everything turns to silence, united in ( _terror_ ) common purpose to avoid being seen. He very nearly scowls at her and her suggestion, except she seems to recognize his tension before he even has chance to react.

“Not that you have to, I know it is—well I don’t, can’t presume to at any rate, but nevermind that—how it is going out in this society. Things have been a bit better since those X-Men and that Xavier have come along, but still not enough done if you ask me. If you’d rather, you can come over for some tea—no, not tea, you didn’t even touch your cup last time, milk, wasn’t it?—and board games if you need a distraction.” She smiles at him, gentle and kind and _sincere_ (he cannot stop staring at her).

(thinks of staying, thinks of pacing endlessly, thinks how he has no desire to _sit_ , how his bones _itch_ —

thinks of blue skin, thinks of paler lines that curve across his flesh, his face—

He shakes himself. He is Loki, he is a prince—fallen though he may be—and is he not trying to deal with his now-skin? Intended to be cowed, he reminds himself, and smiles at Mrs. Jefferson (he will not be cowed, he _will not_ , he is Loki and he is Jotun and he will continue to be so for the foreseeable future. He always was)

“A trip out would not be so bad,” he tells her, and she smiles, pats his forearm, genuinely _pleased_ by his acceptance of her offer.

Such a strange little woman.

(And when they pass by another resident on their way to her car, he does not allow his shoulders to draw in, does not allow himself to lower his eyes, does not allow himself to _flinch_ though everything in him wishes it.

He will not allow himself to be used against himself.)

***

_I am bored_.

Natasha eyes the text for a few minutes, refraining from rolling her eyes.

She can’t say that she’s _opposed_ to Loki being marginally less… cold, fine, cold, she’s only human, it’s a joke worth making. Which is not to say that Loki is always _pleasant_ —far from.

It makes her skin crawl.

 _Then do something_ , she texts him back.

Not that Loki friendly is bad. Logically, she is fully aware why Loki would be friendlier, or at least attempting civility on the days when he is decidedly _not_ —the joke with the milk went over far better than she expected.

 _Too hot_ and this time she _does_ roll her eyes.

She’s going to need to stop by again soon, because—yet one more reason she finds him interesting, one more reason she enjoys his company—Loki is restless, constantly; an incredibly intelligent panther that, when not sleeping, needs to have _something happening_ , and she is very rarely bored because of it.

It’s no wonder he tried to take over the world, if he fell through a void like Thor claims. He probably went half mad just from the sheer dullness of the fall.

***

By the time she does arrive, Loki’s asleep.

Specifically, Loki is asleep on the couch.

He doesn’t wake up—she is beginning to acclimate to that, that he doesn’t wake at the slightest noise like she would expect. No, it looks like he fell asleep in the middle of three or four tasks. Like he was drugged.

She cases the entire apartment, but the only one who has definitively been here is Loki; while Loki has been getting more comfortable with being seen, she highly doubts that would include a total stranger breaking in.

She frowns at where Loki is very much still asleep on the couch, one foot hanging off and—at this point—face down and wrapped around one of the throw pillows. At least Stark makes his things sturdy—the laptop appears to be fine despite having fallen to the floor whenever it was Loki rolled over. Other than the laptop, there’s no sign of any struggle. It’s… odd.

"Loki."

He doesn't stir.

"Loki," she says again, louder. That at least gets a muffled noise as he rubs his face against the pillow, but he goes still right after.

“Loki,” she says, a third time, mildly irritated, and reaches out to shake his shoulder.

Mistake—she can tell as soon as she touches him.

Loki practically explodes into motion, and the skin beneath her hand goes from pleasantly cool to blisteringly cold— _keeps going_ ; she tries to pull back, but Loki tracks and follows the motion, a hand lashing out to pin her by the throat, ice taking shape across his skin. Not good; she forces herself to relax while he stares at her for a few long minutes, red eyes wide and still not entirely awake. She is going to get frostbite if he doesn’t let go.

“Loki, it’s Natasha,” she says, calm, keeping herself limp. He blinks, slow and heavy, then the burning cold eases up so it’s just _cold_ and not _health risk_. There’s no recognition, not quite, so she adds, “Romanoff.”

“Romanoff,” he echos, still blinking, then his eyes wander to the plate of cookies by the table. “Have a cookie,” he says, hand dropping. Peace offering, she realizes. An incredibly exhausted peace offering.  His eyes are still on her, even if they’re unfocused, so she grabs one of the peanut butter cookies she’s gotten used to always seeing near him.

She makes herself not spit it out, because it’s salty enough it might have been soaked in the ocean and sweet enough her teeth want to curl up in self-defense.

The single bite and her polite ‘thank you’ is enough to soothe the upset, and his eyes start to droop closed again, resting his head on his forearms despite the awkward position and the fact she’s right there.

Interesting.

“Loki.”

“Nnn.” His eyes slip partially open for a moment, bright red slivers against blue skin, then close.

“Go to bed. You’re going to be irritated if you wake up like this.”

She almost thinks Loki fell asleep again, but then he twists and slides the rest of the way to the floor—nearly landing on the laptop—before starting to push himself to his feet.

Which is exactly as far as he gets before he’s asleep again, half curled up on the floor.

Natasha puts both the cookie and laptop on the table, considering what to do next. She’s not going to be moving him—he’s far too heavy, to start, and he’s not staying awake long enough to even begin to help. He’ll be irritated later, undoubtedly, because he’ll assume she saw him like this since he’s fallen asleep in the living room. Irritating, since there’s nothing she can do to avoid it, and Loki is easier to deal with when he isn’t overly antagonistic to hide his own weaknesses.

She grabs a blanket and spare pillow out of the closet. The pillow she leaves by his head; the blanket, she tosses over him. He doesn’t need it, she knows he doesn’t, but he seems to like them.

That done, she turns her attention to the plate of cookies. Half gone, if she counts her cookie she most certainly won’t be finishing; she’s half-curious if he’s actually _eaten_ anything besides them lately. Just over a month of this diet; it makes her curious if malnutrition is part of his problem. A month to show effects—interesting, and it raises some questions on how quickly he’s processing food, how long it takes to build up.

She checks on Loki again—still asleep, and this time doesn’t even twitch when she touches him.

The fact that his mind doesn’t classify her as threat enough to stay awake, she files away. Perhaps not an entirely useless visit after all.

***

“Do you actually eat anything _other_ than peanut butter and cookies?” she asks a week and a half later, mild interest turned to actual concern at how often she’s found him asleep and unwell.

Not that she should be concerned, but explaining to Thor that his younger brother died of malnutrition isn’t a task she particularly wants when Thor finally decides he’s tired of giving Loki space and goes looking for.

“What does it matter?” Loki replies, not looking up from the flash game that’s apparently caught his interest—momentarily—on the laptop. True to form, a jar of peanut butter is next to him. Extra crunchy, which seems to be his favourite; Natasha will admit that he at least has taste. “Frost giants can eat anything,” he adds after a few seconds delay, one brow dipping in concentration.

Natasha rolls her eyes though he’s not watching her.

“Just because you aren’t dead now doesn’t mean you won’t be later. You can’t survive off cookies, peanut butter, and milk.”

“I dare say you sound like you care.”

Natasha watches him—it’s interesting how different he sounds when he’s relaxed, when he’s not paying attention, how words are multifaceted when filtered through him. Another time, his statement would be an attack; now, it’s only an observation.

Careful, she reminds herself. He isn’t _that_ interesting.

“You’ll get sick,” Natasha points out. “Last I checked, we don’t have many doctors that can help if you get sick.”

“Or anyone who even knows anything about frost giants,” he adds, tongue poking out slightly and brow dipping further in concentration.

Natasha stares at him.

“Damn,” he says, leaning back, disappointed frown crossing his features. He glances over at her, blinking. “Yes?”

“Do you actually know anything about frost giants?”

His brows furrow in confusion as he replays the last few moments of conversation back, then grimaces. Natasha crosses her arms, entirely unimpressed.

“I know how to kill them,” he offers. “I would hardly say that Asgard was ever particularly… _friendly_ with Jotunheim. Certainly no diplomatic meetings when I was a child.”

“So you don’t actually know if you can survive off a diet of milk, peanut butter, and cookies. In fact, I’d think you can’t, considering the way you keep falling asleep.”

If she weren’t annoyed with him for pretending a knowledge he doesn’t seem to have, she’d find how put-out he looks amusing. As is, she wants to swat him upside the head.

“ _Fine_ ,” he huffs. “I will endeavor to eat more than cookies, peanut butter, and milk.”

“Like fish.”

“Like _fish_ ,” he says, disdainful.

“You were a picky eater as a child, weren’t you?”

“I was no such thing. I simply had taste. I would hardly count fish among the finer things in life.”

“Then why did you tell me fish when I asked you before?” she asks, exasperated.

He shrugs.

“Jotunheim is an ocean world primarily covered in frost. Like that moon around one of your planets, which is it? You give them so many names. I imagine most life is in said water. It was _certainly_ not above ground when we… visited.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

“Aren’t you meant to be the one always studying?”

“I had better things to do than study _Jotnar_ ,” Loki sneers. “Barely better than beasts.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, makes a point of drawing her gaze down his form, then back up to his face; his neck and cheeks have both stained a darker blue, mouth a thin line and shoulders drawn tight and very much not taking his gaze off her. Just in case he catches sight of his own skin most likely.

“But you know how to kill them.”

“Yes.”

“And if I recall correctly, Asgard had quite the war with them. Thor mentions it from time to time.”

If possible, Loki tenses even more, jaw twitching as he grinds his teeth together.

“Yes,” he spits.

She could, very easily, hurt him. She probably should—her offer for Loki to stay here did not include being kind to him, no matter what she’s said of hospitality to get his cooperation or the actions she’s taken to keep him from boredom. A Loki who accepts himself and doesn’t twitch any time someone looks at him is one that promises to be more dangerous; she has firsthand knowledge that what doesn’t kill a person makes them stronger. Yet Loki is interesting, and for all his occasional distemper, she has found herself amused and fond more often than not.

“You regard Asgardians as the highest of the realms. Defenders?”

“Get to your point, Romanoff.”

“Frost giants can’t be quite so beastly if the highest realm in the lands thought them a threat, can they? That requires thought, planning, flourishing on an ice planet. They wouldn’t have lasted particularly long in a war against Asgardians if they weren’t clever, considering they aren’t quite as strong as them physically—supposing Thor’s stories are anything to go by.”

“That doesn’t—“

“And there’s you,” she says smoothly, ignoring his interruption. His teeth audibly click as he shuts his mouth. “Clever enough to talk his way from the other end of the universe and nearly take over a realm with a half-cocked planned and resources gathered on site.”

Loki stays quiet for a moment.

“What do you want from me?” he asks.

Natasha shrugs.

“I don’t want anything. Maybe help me figure out what we’re eating for dinner.”

He looks away, down at his hand, eyes tracing complex lines neither of them know the meaning of. Natasha waits.

“I,” he finally says, “can assist with that.”

***

There is power in knowledge.

Unlike, say, _Thor_ (an _entirely_ random example), Loki is not one to mock the creation of new words in order to describe things. Knowledge is power, and words are just one of a _host_ of methods to contain it. _Knowing_ has perhaps always been a particular flaw of his ( _wanting to know_ ).

Midgard—Earth—has so _very much_ knowledge.

(He is not afraid to say that he was, perhaps, _mistaken_ ; that he perhaps based too much of his knowledge of them upon distant observation. He certainly never knew of their webs of communication they have spun as finely as an invisible spell around their realm—how _quickly_ they communicate (almost so quick as he _thinks_ ))

Midgard—Earth—has so many _words_ ; he sorts through them, parses, _adds_ to his collection, _adds_ to what he knows. He _thinks_

(how long has it been since he had time to _think_ instead of _react_?)

and in truth it is _thinking_ that he is mostly doing, until he finally does not wish to think anymore, requires some thing (one) _else_ to distract him. Natasha had a fair point—Asgard has never felt a need to war with a realm that wasn’t a worthy opponent—and if he will make sure his skin is not used against him, he needs to find some way to accept that he is, in fact, Jotnar. That this will not end, that he will always be this beneath what glamours he casts when he has his magic once more.

(thinks about words— _racism, internalization, colonialism, oppression_ —and how they transfer and how they don’t and tries-tries- _tries_ to _understand_ (to not _flinch_ when he looks at himself, to quell the immediate _threat_ that _still_ comes to mind first instead of _this is myself_ )(to find the worth in that which is not Aesir))

And if it takes time to _understand_ the knowledge—well, hasn’t it always?

(Except for someone ( _her_ ), maddening, because she has not betrayed him, not given him over. Because she is _fascinating_ and he does not know _why_.)

(because instead of taking his weakness and twisting it more, she pushed and suggested another way, gave a reminder of what he had not considered)

(Perhaps touch? _Warmth_ , which feels nearly _too hot_. Not that she touches, but he remembers, half-dream (all haze), that she did (was he falling asleep?), hands not soft, no (she is far too active for that (is that why?)), but touch and she did not flinch (he doesn’t remember—it is all so _distant_ ), _he did not hurt her_ , and there was _warmth_ part of him longed to curl around for no other reason than it felt _safe_.)

(that can’t be it, it can’t _only_ be touch (her hair, red, like fire, like his eyes, a twisted up merging of trying to approve of himself and doing it through _others_ who share the hue even if just with their hair) and he cuts himself, distracted, trying to decide what it _is_ (words, _words_ , clever quick words that trip him, drag him back, that create order from the chaos but an order that does not _strangle_ , one that feels like _silence_ )—snaps back to what he’s doing and shoves the thoughts ( _her_ ) away angrily)

“Are you okay?” she asks and he forces a smile.

“Just a scratch,” he assures her and watches blue blood slick over his finger. Hesitates, then tastes it--salt, thick, sweet, _cool_. Another difference (remembers hot, particular taste of iron, _red_ , but that is not his now, will not be again).

“Bandages are in the cabinet,” she says, not noticing (not commenting, she does that, he has realized, does not focus her attention without thought).

(Perhaps that is it.)

***

“So who are you seeing?”

Natasha doesn’t bother looking up from cleaning her gun. Actually focuses _more_ on cleaning the gun, letting her movements slow and grow more methodical, considering the question and all its implications.

“Or don’t answer. That’s cool. Probably some criminal mastermind.”

“Are you jealous?” she finally asks, looking up at him.

Clint looks entirely unimpressed with her. The corner of her mouth twitches up before she can control it.

“Of course not,” she says at the same time as him, and he grins.

“But you are seeing someone.”

“According to you.”

“Sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?” he says; he sounds wistful, fond, and Natasha wonders what exactly he’s talking about for a moment.

“Who are _you_ seeing?” she asks, because Clint doesn’t talk relationships without a reason.

“No one,” he says, grinning. “You’ve just seemed happier lately. I wouldn’t mind meeting him.”

 _You have_ , Natasha thinks but she doesn’t say.

“Maybe one day,” she says, returning her attention to the gun.

This is a problem. Keeping Loki contained and her safe house secret were the primary objectives. They still are, but there’s more that’s crept in while she wasn’t paying attention—salt caramels and movies and the particular satisfaction of Loki’s unmitigated joy. This is not how one is meant to interact and maintain distance.

She’s let her guard down. Not difficult—Loki is interesting.

She could feasibly get rid of the vulnerability, but she has, in general, attempted to do that less since she met Clint and took his offer. She does not need to eradicate all weaknesses anymore, reinvent herself every time she begins to form relationships. This means that occasionally she gets hurt, but ultimately she’d rather the reminders that she’s human.

But this is Loki--there’s a conversation that needs to be had foremost before she decides one way or the other.

***

That afternoon, she arrives unannounced. Loki’s head turns from where he’s on the couch, notes her despite the television, the music, and whatever is on the laptop. It sounds like a mess to her, but she recognizes that less would likely leave him bored and, in turn, more apt to do something catastrophic.

“Romanoff,” he says, voice warm if a touch surprised, and he does not flinch as she looks at him. Good; he’s in a good mood. He’ll be both more tractable and easier to manage when his temper makes an appearance. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He’s not an idiot; he’s being polite without sarcasm. She usually tells him when she’s stopping by.

“We need to have a talk,” Natasha says. She takes her jacket off, more to make a point than because she wants to—Loki gets grouchy if the temperature gets above sixty Fahrenheit and it’s just on this side of uncomfortable for her. She throws it over the arm of the couch and he actually does move so she can sit down, setting aside the laptop, turning things down or off entirely and focusing on her as he gestures for her to sit.

“Why the attack?” she asks.

“Why not?” he asks, grinning even as the corners of his eyes tighten. “Power, a realm under my control—tell me, what is there not to enjoy?”

“Stop being coy. We both know that wasn’t the reason—you were as convinced you wanted power as I’m convinced I’m still a professional ballet dancer.”

“Why do you wish to know?”

“I need to know the likelihood of you trying it again.”

The smile drops, his face going blank as his eyes search over her features carefully. Natasha does not move, allows the examination and allows him to take his time to respond.

“This did not matter when I first arrived.”

“Circumstances change. I half-expected to come by and find you dead when you first started to stay here.”

“And since I seem to be handling things so _well_ , naturally now would be the time to ask, would it not?” He bares his teeth.

“That is some of it.” Natasha does not give him the pleasure of reacting to his aggression.

“At least you are honest,” he says, face relaxing again to stillness, eyes focusing just past her head. “How novel. And the rest, if that is not your only reason?”

“Answer the question first.”

“I was bored and unhappy and I had few other avenues open to me to return to this part of the universe. I saw an opportunity and I took it.” He gives her a thin, crooked smile. “Unless the opportunity presents itself once more, I have little desire to conquer your realm, Romanoff. Fear not. Ruling has never particularly been one of my designs, no matter what Thor may tell you.”

Natasha considers this. It sounds true, though there is still plenty that could be hidden under such a broad response. More certain is that he sounds more rueful than anything, self-deprecating.

“I find you interesting,” Natasha says, and, before he can say anything, based off how his brow just furrowed, she adds, “Why Clint?”

That halts his question.

“Is this,” he asks, voice silky and eyes lazy, “the moment you ask if I regret my actions, Agent Romanoff?”

“No. You saying that you feel bad or not has very little value to me—you know just as well as me how to put on a pretty face and pretend. Your guilt isn’t relevant to this conversation.”

“Fascinating. Very well—I chose him because he was convenient, and he stood up once more. Dedication is valuable during an invasion and Barton has it in spades.”

“And why you let him go?”

Loki freezes, shoulders stiff and eyes wide. Natasha allows herself a smile that does not touch her eyes.

“Don’t tell me he served his purpose,” she says. “He would have been an asset after the hellicarrier incident; I’m not blind to how good a soldier Clint is.”

“Do you know what it is to unmake someone? To take all of a man and direct it to one goal, above all the things that he most values?” Loki pauses, licks his lips and eyes searching before looking to meet her own gaze again. “Barton had—has—great dedication. Heart, I believe I said. Even directing him as I did did little to change that.” He attempts to shrug, but the motion is aborted, face serious. “I repay kindnesses, Romanoff, most especially when they were given despite all directive indicating to do otherwise.”

“You were doing him a favour.”

“I was making sure he did not break, and that there was a Barton left to recover,” Loki corrects. The distinction between the two is not lost on her.

Natasha considers for a moment, then nods.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’m glad that was all it was.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Well, considering how slapdash the rest of your planning was, I couldn’t be sure you letting him go _wasn’t_ part of it,” she says, grinning in truth, and he smiles back, amused.

“Not my best work, I admit.”

“Lucky for us.”

“Yes,” he says, voice quiet and a touch full of wonder, “lucky for us indeed.”

***

He is caught ( _fascinated_ ), because there was an honest conversation that did not devolve into _anger_ and _spite_ (feeling _lesser_ ), because she _believes_ him (never mind it is _true_ , what he said of his reasoning, she _believes_ without him having to _prove it_ ), because what walls she had been keeping up are less because because because—

 _Absolutely maddening_ because he does not know _why_.

***

"Look," Loki says, finding her in the kitchen, carrying the laptop. "Stop cooking for a moment, this is amusing." He's bouncing on his feet, staying just out of range of the warmth of the stove. Natasha raises an eyebrow at him, because as flimsy excuses go he's done better. "I don't know why you insist on cooking," he adds, almost a complaint.

She snorts, checking to make sure nothing looks like it's in danger of burning before joining him. It's not about what he wants to show, though she will admit it's amusing enough for a cat video.

Even expecting it, his touch is a shock after the heat off the stove, making her flinch before she catches herself. Loki tenses, though his attention for all intents seems to still be on the video and he’s still half-smiling.

“Cute,” Natasha says, stepping away from him but brushing a hand against his wrist before he can do the same. He shrugs her off as his shoulders relax; she hides her smile.

Touch. Constant little touches which she isn’t quite sure how to place or what she said to make them acceptable, pretended accidental brush of skin to skin. It’s not like Loki is explaining himself, though she suspects it may have to do with getting used to himself from how he’ll withdraw or flinch if she reacts in a way that seems negative.

There’s no harm it, at least not more than there is in a Loki who doesn’t despises himself.

“What are you making?” he asks, settling by the doorway to the kitchen.

“I thought you didn’t care about what I’m making.”

“I said I do not know why you insist on cooking. It’s unbearably hot.” He glares at her like it’s her fault, but then his attention is snagged by the laptop again. Another reason she suspects touch is more for his own sake than it is anything else—he’s been making a point of actually vocalizing traits very much tied to his being a frost giant. At least it’s led to figuring out his diet, slow digestion and all; it took nearly a week from when he stopped eating only peanut butter and milk to stop drifting off.

It’s… odd. Not unwelcome, but unusual. She wouldn’t have thought the Loki who showed up that night would ever be at such a point, yet here he is; more, she doesn’t feel like she needs to police her own interest and investment in his actually managing to get a handle on himself since they spoke about the invasion. If anything, she admires him for his efforts—she always has had a soft spot for survivors, particularly when the odds were entirely against them—and kept an eye out for small things she can do to at least support him.

Like touching him back when he initiates and the coolness startles her.

“Cookies,” she says, laughing out right when his head snaps up to look at her. “Careful, I’m going to start to think you have a weakness.”

He stares at her for a few moments, lips pressed tight, then the corner of his mouth goes up and he sniffs, haughty and ridiculous.

“As if any would believe you. A god with a weakness for _cookies_.”

“They’re chocolate chip with sea salt,” Natasha says, checking the oven as the timer goes over.

“They aren’t peanut butter.” His voice is dismissive, but she catches a note of disappointment underneath.

“There’s more to life than peanut butter.”

He sniffs like he doesn’t quite believe her, but when the cookies are finally cool enough for him to eat, half the batch is gone before she realizes.

***

Loki isn’t at the apartment when she arrives. The cash she gave him—he’s been on a sushi kick—and the laptop are both still in the apartment. So are all of his clothes, including what he originally arrived in, so she doesn’t _think_ he’s gone for good.

It still raises the question of where he is _now_.

She hears talking and people on the walkway outside; one of them sounds like it could be Loki.

Natasha pauses a moment to take in what she’s seeing—Loki, with a few cloth totes, and a woman who is at least two inches shorter than Natasha herself, older. Loki is attentive, focused on the little old woman who—apparently—lives next door. Jefferson, Natasha thinks; that tenant hasn’t changed since she originally got this place.

“Out for some shopping?” she asks, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. Loki looks up, the almost… _gentle_ cast of his face going entirely blank, mouth ticking down before opening his mouth to speak.

“Everyone needs to go out sometime, stretch their legs, especially someone quite so tall as Luke, isn’t that right, dear?” Jefferson says, casual and sweet and entirely silencing Loki, but Natasha is not totally oblivious to the way she settles herself between Natasha and Loki. When she glances up, she catches Loki looking at the older woman, too.

“Yes,” Loki says when it’s clear that both the women are waiting on a response. He looks at Natasha, smiles without his eyes, but his shoulders have drawn in slightly. He’s worried—Natasha isn’t sure she doesn’t blame him.

Him going out was never part of the agreement. Even discounting few people would recognize him at a glance now, he’s still Loki and, if anything, calls _more_ attention to himself with his blue skin and the pale lines sweeping over his flesh.

Not to mention the eyes. Even if they weren’t red, Loki has a distinctive glare.

“I see.” She keeps any inflection out of her voice, not looking away from Loki.

“You must be Natasha,” Jefferson says, keys jangling loudly in her door before she pushes it open, drawing Natasha’s attention back to her. “Luke’s told me quite a bit about you. You know, you’ve had this place all this time and I don’t believe we’ve ever met. Luke, why don’t you go set the bags down in the kitchen?” She holds one hand out for Natasha to shake. “Mrs. Jefferson, dear.”

Loki doesn’t protest, just gives Natasha one last look before smiling at Jefferson— _Mrs._ Jefferson apparently—and disappearing into the old woman’s apartment, leaving the two of them out on the walkway.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Natasha says, taking the offered hand, pausing when Mrs. Jefferson doesn’t immediately let go.

“Now I’m sure you’ve known him much longer than me, Natasha, but I just want to make it very clear to you that Luke is a perfectly well-behaved gentleman when we go out. And you’re doing him a lovely turn, from what little he’s been willing to say.” Mrs. Jefferson smiles, sweet, but her grip tightens slightly on Natasha’s hand and the edges of her eyes go tight. “I promise you’ll be _very_ sorry if you upset him over this, because these trips out do far more good for him than whatever safety you both think he needs hiding in your apartment.” She squeezes Natasha’s hand again, then pats it, letting go and stepping back as Loki arrives outside once more.

Natasha blinks at Mrs. Jefferson, genuinely surprised, amused, and--if she’s honest--concerned. Perhaps she hasn’t shaken her irrational fear of little old grandmothers being capable of cursing people after all.

“It should all be put away,” Loki says, head tilted so he can keep Natasha in his peripheral.

“Thank you, Luke. You have a lovely evening now.” Mrs. Jefferson smiles at Natasha again, looking at her when she adds, “You let me know if you need anything at all, you hear?”

Loki actually does look at Natasha, then back to Mrs. Jefferson before a smile curls his lips, an eyebrow raising in amusement.

“Of course,” he assures her.

***

“You go grocery shopping,” Romanoff says, deadpan, as soon as the apartment door closes.

(He wishes, very deeply, he had not gone with Mrs. Jefferson, not today, but restlessness clawed beneath his skin, left him feeling _caged_.)

“What, did you expect I allow myself to stay here all day? I am a _god_ , Romanoff, not a pet.”

“And what’s your plan if someone recognizes you? You know just as well as me how easy it is to find your face—you’ve _used_ that before.”

He forces a smile--bares his teeth--because he has seen himself in the mirror (begun to make habit of it).

“Because I am _sure_ you pathetic mortals are expecting to see me as I look now, blue skin and all? Your race is hardly so observant and have short memories, Romanoff, else they would have noticed long ago.”

(A little late, to lie now, as the words pass his lips, but he does not _care_ , not even slightly.)

“How long have you been doing this?”

He shrugs (forces casualness through his frame), idle, studying black nails and whorls of white that twine complex across his hands (patterns he suspects, more and more, _mean_ something), then says “A month since I began to stay? I am no longer quite sure. Time passes so _quickly_ on your realm.”

He glances up, catches Natasha’s mouth tightening, knuckles going white slightly where her arms are crossed, blinks.

(Truly?)

“You _worry_ ,” he says, and does nothing to hide his disbelief.

(If she worries, then perhaps, _perhaps_ —

(no, he does _not_ care, no matter how fascinating she is, he does not—

“It’s not just you endangered when you do that. I’m the one giving you a place to stay, or do you keep forgetting that?”

He laughs (of course not, of course she is only concerned with herself, isn’t that the way of things?).

“You think I would tell them where I have hidden myself away?”

“I would plan for it, yes. Whether you would or not would depend on you, wouldn’t it?” She tilts her head (feels as if she is examining his every secret) and he smiles at her thinly.

“You said if I were unhappy I could leave.”

She nods, eyebrow raised and waiting on him to continue (oh how he _adores_ her, how she does not interrupt, how she knows he has a point to make).

“You did not say I could not return. And I have, have I not?” He tilts his own head, mirrors hers, lazy smile on his face. “I was discontent, left, and then I returned when I was no longer discontent.”

She frowns at him, then shakes her head, letting her arms drop and walking past him towards the kitchen.

“Fine,” she says, but she’s smiling, slightly, and his own grows more sincere for it. “Fine. Just be careful.”

“How long has it been?” he asks.

“Then keep _being_ careful. I’d rather not need to come bail you out.”

He lets his smile grow to a grin, pleased.

( _Perhaps_ ….)

***

He is thinking, watching as Mrs. Jefferson debates between this or that cereal, wondering how much longer he will be able to venture out (the weather, only the weather--it is growing _warm_ ; the memory of his invasion is distant, fogged further by the skin he wore then that reacts nothing like his own skin; even so he remembers heat) before he will be bound to (wonders of mortals) the air-conditioned apartment.

(Wonders if he will go stir-crazy in such a small space)

He is thinking, and there are people, and while some look at him, he ignores them (that, that is _easier_ now; will he forget what it is to roam like this, after staying indoors for the summer?). He is thinking, trailing after Mrs. Jefferson, and so does not quite catch what is said when someone passes him, does not care (because he did not _hear_ ).

But Mrs. Jefferson does, head snapping to look at the young man who made the comment in question, and it stirs his focus away from his thoughts. It must not have been particularly pleasant, whatever was said.

“Young man, you apologize right this instant,” Mrs. Jefferson says with all the authority she has--which is quite an amount, Loki has found.

(Not for the first time, he marvels a little (and resents)(mostly marvels) that she is so ready to defend, nearly charming in her steadfastness.)

The young man stops, frowning at her, eyes flicking to Loki; Loki smiles, lazy, but more relevant, he thinks, is defusing the situation. No need to draw attention.

"No need for any of that," he says, generously enough, smile charming and toothless.

"But Luke--"

"Mrs. Jefferson," Loki interrupts, still smiling and finding her need to defend decidedly less charming.

"You should listen to your pet monster."

( _Monster_.)

His smile drops.

Loki regards the young man flatly, taking a step towards him. The young man doesn't step back--admirable--just tilts his chin up slightly and refuses to look away.

"They shouldn't let freaks like you out in public."

This time, when he smiles, there are teeth (teeth he knows are too sharp for a human mouth).

"Is that so?" Loki asks, polite and mild.

"Luke," Mrs. Jefferson says at his side, a too hot hand at his wrist. "Don't do anything to prove the young man's point."

"He doesn't actually believe what he's saying. Do you?"

“Sure I do. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

“No,” Loki corrects, “you do not.”

“Luke,” Mrs. Jefferson repeats, insistent, then yelps, letting go of his wrist. He barely notices, shoving the man against the aisle with one hand, crowding his space, smile vanishing. Ice spreads across blue skin, follows the pale lines on his hand to the young man’s shirt, branching out into snowflake fractals.

“You see, if you did, in fact, think me a monster—something to _fear_ —you would not provoke. You would duck your head and hurry past, because _monsters_ do not care for your petty social norms that keep them from harming you in broad daylight.” Loki smiles, bright and charming, pulling the man’s chin up with one fingertip. “So do you believe me a monster?”

“No,” the man says, voice shivering.

Loki tilts his head, considers him, but he keeps smiling, allows it to touch his eyes.

“You are lying. How charming.” He steps back, lets go, ice melting away. “Yet I think you may have learned something quite valuable today.” Any friendliness to his demeanor vanishes, voice hard and cold and _regal_ , eyes flat. “Do not forget it. Not all monsters are so kind as I. Now apologize to her for upsetting her shopping trip.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Very good.” Loki steps fully out of the man’s space, turns his attention to Mrs. Jefferson (ignores how she is _looking_ at him), entirely dismisses the young man from existence. “Shall we?” he asks Mrs. Jefferson, forcing himself to meet her eyes (bubbling beneath, twisting and nauseous and roiling, _look at what I am_ ).

She studies him, then the man that Loki is ignoring. She nods.

“I’ve almost got the whole list, shouldn’t be too much more, dear,” she says, and she smiles.

(He very nearly startles when her hand touches his elbow, not just for warmth but for the _contact_ , the lack of hesitation.)

***

It doesn’t occur to him until they are in her car, on the way back to the apartments, how utterly _stupid_ it was of him to react as he did in public in a store where he is well aware there are security feeds, knowing as he does how poorly people take to those who appear mutant. He snaps back from his mild discomfort with how Mrs. Jefferson has proceeded to act as if he did little wrong (mild disapproval at his methods, but not _him_ ) and shudders, hands gripping tight in the cloth of his pants until his knuckles go white as they once were.

“Are you alright, Luke?”

“Fine,” he says, short, because there is less for his voice to shake on.

( _Idiot_ , imbecile—why, because someone called him what he has always known he is? Someone who had the courage to say, at least until he proved to them what the word _means_. Not as if he has honour left to defend, as if any would think him less for allowing the insult—no one _here_ of Asgard to _know_ \--)

 “You,” Mrs. Jefferson says, interrupting the flow of his thoughts, “look like you have a case of nerves. Why don’t you come in and have a drink, dear?”

He frowns a bit at her diagnosis.

“I have nothing of the sort.”

“Of course not. I’ll get you a drink and you can tell me all about the nerves you don’t have. It will be very relaxing, bit early in the day, but with how exciting this morning was it won’t hurt a thing.”

“Very well,” Loki says, but when they arrive back, he follows her inside her home, sits where she points on the couch covered in lace things he isn’t sure have a name but she seems always to be making, and waits patiently while she busies herself in the kitchen (does not think of _keep being careful_ , does not think of Natasha at all, of disappointment and irritation and how very _surely_ he has jeopardized—). Mrs. Jefferson comes back with a mug he eyes a bit warily, but it isn’t steaming and isn’t warm to the touch when he takes it from her.

“You do drink, don’t you?” she asks, not quite letting go of the mug yet.

That makes him smile, once he realizes what she is actually asking.

“Yes,” he tells her, but he appreciates the warning nevertheless.

“Oh excellent. My husband, he used to abstain himself, you know. Did terrible things to his temper, he thought it was much better to not drink at all. Ahead of his time, still is, the state of the world today. Do you not like it, Luke?”

“It’s quite interesting,” he says, because Loki cannot tell if he likes it or not. It’s so strangely bitter—coffee, he thinks—and the alcohol is there, he can taste it, but it tastes… _different_ than what he can recall. Almost an absence of flavour, but he spares examining that more in favour of the cream he can taste, running through it all, that makes the coffee near bearable. “Enjoyable, at the least, for that alone.”

“Such a dear,” she says, smiling and crows printing the corners of her eyes—he can’t help but smile back, a little easier than he was.

***

She’s waiting on Clint, reading in the common area. They’re meant to be getting lunch, and with him late he’s either got himself stuck in one of the air ducts again—which would be entirely his own fault—or there’s a work-related emergency. She’s beginning to lean towards the former, considering she hasn’t gotten a call at all, when he comes in.

“Hey, Natasha,” he says with a tired smile.

“Tony set more traps in the air ducts?”

“Ha-ha. No. Work.”

She raises an eyebrow, but even with the Avengers, it’s not uncommon for them to not be privy to the various SHIELD related tasks they both still have. She isn’t expecting an answer, not really.

“Mutant incident got passed all the way up the chain.”

“I didn’t hear anything about Magneto and friends being in town.”

“Yeah, that’s because they probably aren’t. Looks like Loki almost.”

Natasha doesn’t miss a step as they head for the elevator.

“Looks like? Do you not think it’s him?”

“He’s not _blue_.” Clint shrugs. “No one got hurt, there weren’t any speeches about ruling. Face matches, at least what we can tell of it. Grocery security cameras aren’t what I’d call high tech, though they’re better than they were. Intel’s doing more digging, but I think it’s just a scare. You remember how many Loki reports we got right after the invasion?”

“You would know best,” Natasha says. “Did you make up your mind what you want to eat?”

***

It’s exactly three hours and twenty four minutes before Natasha can, without raising any suspicion, duck out to at least _call_ Loki. She pauses as she pulls out her phone—three texts, all from Loki’s number, which read _apologies, did you kno_ , and _stupid_ , in that order. There’s also one missed call, but no voicemail.

There’s no one around to see her eyebrows shoot up.

She calls him, not entirely sure if she expects him to answer, breathing a sigh of relief when he does.

“I need to move yo—“

“So _that’s_ how that works, I was _right_ ,” he says, oblivious, smug and slurring—actually _slurring_ —over the phone.

“Are you drunk?” she asks, momentarily forgetting what she was going to say.

“Possible,” he says. “Not entirely sure. Can’t feel my tongue.”

“Why are you drinking? Where did you even get alcoho—. You hung up on me.” She stares at the phone again. Well then.

She’s relieved, when she arrives, that Loki is, in fact, still in the apartment. She’d hazard a guess that he got the alcohol from Mrs. Jefferson—car conveniently not in the lot, which suggests she ran out before Loki got drunk—but it doesn’t put her any more at ease. She’s specifically made sure not to have any alcohol in the apartment since she has no idea what it will do to a frost giant.

No time like the worst time to find out.

“Loki?” she says as she walks in, closing the door softly behind her. The television is on, though he isn’t in the room; there’s light spilling from the kitchen doorway. She walks around to it, pausing in the doorway and crossing her arms. Loki leans back a bit from the cabinet he’s digging through, blinks at her with unfocused eyes, then smiles widely.

“Roma-romann—N'tasha!”

“You’re drunk.”

“We're out of peanuts,” he tells her. She isn’t even sure he’s ignoring her or if it simply hasn’t processed yet. “I am not,” he adds; the latter. Unfortunate—it will make getting any details out of him entirely useless. Then he half-runs into the fridge trying to open it, scowling at it like it’s at fault for his lack of coordination.

She restrains her sigh; she can’t risk taking him and finding a hotel room while he’s this drunk.

“Loki, go sit on the couch. What are you trying to get?”

“I can get it,” he says, annoyed and stubborn.

“I know you can. Now go sit on the couch. Find something to watch.”

He stares at her for a moment, swaying on his feet, exaggerated scowl that doesn’t do more than make him look like an offended cat, then sniffs and walks past her. Stumbles, and she resists the urge to grab him by the elbow and keep him steady.

“I want a glass of milk,” he tells her gravely, then proceeds past her and back to the living room. She hears him fall onto the couch and shakes her head. “ _Whole_ milk!” he calls.

The flipping between channels he was doing gets derailed as soon as she comes in—all of his attention darts to her, the remote falling to the floor, a hand reaching for the milk. She waits until she’s sure he’s got a good grip on the glass before she lets it go, ignoring how his fingers brush over hers in the process.

“You’re warm,” he tells her, then downs half the milk in one go. “Did you know,” he starts, then stops, eyes searching her face.

“Did I know?” Natasha prompts patiently. At least he isn't as bad as Stark.

She might be able to work this from the inside. Or they may be slower in following up—Clint had been called in, suggesting they wanted his opinion; none of them are quite so familiar with Loki excepting Thor, who’s currently in New Mexico, and Clint doesn’t think it’s Loki.

“Did you _know_ ,” he begins again, “that this cow doesn’t eat grass?”

Natasha stares.

“She doesn’t,” Loki says, a touch defensive, shoulders going up. “You can taste it. Grass makes the… the _fat_ , I think, taste sweeter. It’s very good.” He finishes the glass, setting it on the floor, then focuses on her again.

“Did you find anything?” she asks.

“Hmm? Oh, here, you pick something. It all looks rather dull to me.”

She does, eventually, ignoring his protests when she leaves the channel on a wildlife documentary, pointing out he let her pick. He grumbles some, folded up and hunched in and sulking on the other corner of the couch, but he’s not really paying attention to the movie; he hasn’t been paying attention to much besides her since she came in. Natasha isn’t an idiot. She’s perfectly aware that Loki has at least developed some attachment for her, though she isn’t necessarily sure how far it goes.

Which is why she isn’t particularly surprised when he stops sulking. Or when he starts to edge closer. The eventual slide over her lap, head resting on her shoulder—in what passes for stealthy considering he’s drunk—however, is.

She goes still, observing and noting weak points in easy reach, but Loki either doesn't notice or doesn't care. Maybe both. His hands are chill when they push against the edges of her shirt, but they don't keep roaming; they stop, finger pads resting on flesh. He rubs his face into her throat, low content hum vibrating against her collarbone; she puts a hand at his throat and applies a warning of pressure against his collarbone.

"Loki," she says calmly.

Loki doesn't move, other than a sigh of cool breath over her skin; she can feel his lashes brush against her throat as his eyes close. He hums again.

"Loki," she repeats, sliding her hand from his collarbone to the back of his neck, "while I appreciation the affection, that doesn't clear up just what are you doing."

"You like me?" he asks, leaning back quickly enough that he nearly over-shoots and falls off both her lap and the couch. She steadies him with the hand on his neck as his grip tightens on her waist, notes the almost aggressive tone. No, not quite aggressive—even drunk Loki is apparently very good at hiding desperation with anger.

"I didn't say that," Natasha says evenly.

"No, no of course you don't," Loki says, smile twisted and lopsided and hardly a smile at all.

"I didn’t say that either."

He goes still, or as still as he can, still swaying slightly. Very carefully, she presses against the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

"Why," she asks, "does it matter?"

She expects that, even drunk, Loki will not answer this question—he doesn't seem the type that alcohol makes spill secrets, particularly not personal ones. She doesn't need him to admit it at this point, not if she wants to know—no, his admittance is purely for her own ends, because Loki is interesting in every sense of the word that can hold Natasha's attention, and this is at least mild distraction from the endless scenarios running through her head that she’s realizing more and more she can do very little to change.

"I—you are..." He trails off and Natasha raises an eyebrow. "You are fascinating," he says.

"And you’re interesting," she says, watches realization creep into his eyes, across his face, before he smiles, slow and drunk and _pleased_ —and when he's smiling, just like that, she pulls him in and kisses him.

He doesn't taste like alcohol—he tastes like bitter coffee and sweet cream, and under that the sensation of fresh mint that chills her spine. Alien, yet still familiar, drunken and a little sloppy on Loki’s part, Loki's hands pushing further along her back as she maneuvers them both more firmly onto the couch. One broad hand presses along her ribcage, the other hand cupping the back of her head. He settles himself against her, sharp teeth nipping lightly at her lip, and she tugs his hair, tugs him _back_ , because while she perhaps does not have morals like most, she's come to care about Loki in her own ways.

“No,” she says to his frustrated noise, getting a firmer grip on his hair as he tries to press forward again and making sure her other hand is near the bundle of nerves in his shoulder. “You’re drunk.”

Loki looks absolutely _bewildered_ by her statement, eyebrows drawing together and eyes darting over her face. His hands, though, don’t move—they don’t stroke or pet her skin, he doesn’t press further against her, doesn’t try to coax her with his body to change her mind, and it catches her off-guard. Loki has absolutely no problem using any means to get what he wants—particularly in regards to the things he enjoys—and yet….

He’s drunk. It should be his first thought—Natasha’s dealt with enough men in this situation to _know_ —and _yet_ ….

“But what does that have to do with anything?” Loki asks. He’s frowning now, upset, temper beginning to show because he hasn’t managed to figure it out himself.

“Sex,” Natasha says, blunt, and she can _see_ him switching gears, scowl deepening as he processes the word.

“I wasn’t aware that I needed that—that _tool_ with you.” His voice is low, shaking, and he’s moments from lashing out or breaking down. Perhaps both. “Or do you simply think I cannot perform to your desires?”

“Not that,” Natasha says, thinking, readjusting, trying to add this to what she knows. It isn’t that it’s difficult—it’s that it’s a _surprise_ , considering the number of stories there are in myth of him sleeping with other people. _Tool_ , Loki said—she certainly knows enough of that aspect of sexuality.

He’s impatient, shifting, starting to pull away, face and neck darkening indigo, and she moves her hand from his hair to his neck, rubbing her fingers next to his spine. It gets him to stop.

“Asexual,” she says, but she leaves it open, gives him room to put whatever words he has for himself in the space. “You don’t desire sex.”

He considers her, eyes drooping a little as she keeps rubbing his neck though he hasn’t yet gotten less tense.

“Yes,” he says. He doesn’t say anything else for a moment, and she feels him shudder, just slightly, beneath her hands.

“I apologize,” she says.

“What? For my being flawed as ever?” He laughs, short and sharp.

“For assuming without asking.”

***

He stares at her.

(Tries to orient around the apology, finds he can’t—what is north, when it is not him flawed, but her?)

Her hands slide over skin he is finding increasingly numb (not just the more usual distance of his frost giant flesh, but more, the alcohol—he did not drink so much, did he, only a cup, two, there is something amiss--), fingers pressing into his neck, along his shoulders into tense muscle, and he goes, willingly enough, when she pulls. Blinks as she kisses him on the forehead, disoriented (more), realizes the noise is his own, escaping without his leave.

“I find it interesting.”

( _Interesting, fascinating_ —hair and eyes and _mind_ , clever and quick, and she _understands_ , does she not, doesn’t she always, _listening_ \--)

He kisses her, wants to touch, to sear her warmth into too cool skin, sink it into bone memory (not forget, not ever, that _for a moment_ she _understood_ )(to not be _flawed_ ). Her hands smooth down his sides, press into his waist, she is _smiling_ against him, pleased and amused, kisses back—tongue and teeth, mapping, exploration for the sake of _knowing_ —

because it is _fascinating_ —

—until he rests his forehead (dizzy and drunk and delighted), laughing against her skin breathless, near unpleasantly warm and comfortable ( _understood_ ) while her hand brushes through his hair.

Lies there, tangled against her human heat and human warmth, eyes closed as the room dips and sways, mind entirely, blessedly, silent.

He has no idea how long they lay there (time fleeting even when his thoughts don’t slip slick from his grasp), only that, vaguely, a thought keeps returning, quiet, tugging, thorn rubbing against what is otherwise contentment.

“You,” he starts, then stops, pressing his tongue against over sharp teeth, not quite feeling the pressure, opens his eyes and realizes, dazed, that he does not think he has _ever_ been quite so intoxicated.

“Loki?”

He blinks, sits up though the room almost goes sickening for the motion. Distantly, he realizes that Natasha still has a hand in his hair, that she is frowning at him. (Concerned?)

“You called,” he manages, focusing on the words. “You called. What happened?”

“Someone who looks enough like you to raise some flags at SHIELD caused a scene at a grocery store.” Her voice is neutral, leaves space, but he is not sure what to fill it with.

(Recalls _monster_ and shudders, anger flaring bright and hard and _hurting_ \--)(anger should not hurt, there’s another sensation to anger now, what is it, _something is amiss_ \--)

“Loki,” Natasha says, soothes, fingertips pressing into his scalp, a thumb smoothing along one of his throat markings. “What happened?” Her eyes are on her fingers, she is frowning ( _of course_ she would be disappointed, did he not say he would be careful, had he not, and here, one time someone voices what he knows they _think_ —)(what may be _truth_ ) “Loki. Tell me.”

“Childish,” he says, sour.

“Maybe. But you wanted to know why I called. Now tell me.”

He eyes her.

(wants quiet and peace and warmth again, wants to not _think_ again)

“The more I know, the better I can plan.”

( _sensible_ Natasha)

“I was bored. Thinking. Some… _peasant_ thought to insult me.” He goes quiet, blinks at Natasha, at the clearly suppressed smile. She shakes her head, keeps her mouth firmly closed, so he keeps going. “I… did not care, not at first, but it upset Mrs. Jefferson.”

Natasha nods.

“Then he insulted her?”

He does not remember (only _monster_ ), but nods anyway.

“And you?”

“Threatened him.” He pauses. “Very Thor, brutish, physical harm. Nothing interesting. Nothing beyond him.”

“Not very Loki.”

He smiles (preens) that she would notice (know) the distinction.

“No, not very Loki.” She hums, eyes going distant, cold and calculating and _beautiful_ ; he sighs, leans down against her once more, presses his face against her throat.

“Get up,” she finally says.

He snorts into her neck, but stands—tries to stand, nearly falls over, entirely off-center, turning his head in confusion, grasping for balance. Finds Natasha, instead--she has an arm at his back, grabs his chin to study his face. Cross-eyed for a moment, his vision finally focuses on her, blurred at the edges.

(amiss—something is amiss, even when competing with _Thor_ he has never been so--)

“Bed,” she says. “You’ve attracted enough attention today.” She makes a frustrated noise, letting go of his face to push her hair back. “I’m going to have to hope no one comes looking around here until you’re sober again.”

“I am sorry,” he tells her, mournful, unable to decide if a hug would be welcome or not and instead swaying on his feet between the two choices.

“I know. I know. Come on.”

If he were more sober ( _wrong, something is_ \--), he would be _appalled_ at how drunk he is, how he is stumbling over his own feet, barely able to walk. He does not _remember_ leaving Mrs. Jefferson’s apartment in this state (remembers feeling _warm_ , daresay _cozy_ , pleasant as hot cider in midwinter, but sure of himself), but as is he can barely focus enough to keep what momentum he has.

Would prefer to say he _lay down_ upon the bed when in truth he fell, soon as his knees pressed against the edge.

He rolls over onto his back, blinking at the ceiling, looks for Natasha, finds her staring down at him, arms crossed, face caught between amused and frustrated ( _worry_ , in the set of her lips).

“Stay,” he demands (pleads), a hand reaching for her, memory of her warmth an echo across his flesh. Pauses, then, “Unless—“

“I still find you interesting,” she interrupts, slight smile winning over the worry, for a moment. “I’ll stay for a while. You probably shouldn’t be left alone right now anyway.”

“I need neither your interest nor company,” he sniffs, twisting away from her, and she laughs, a hand running down his spine; forgets he is meant to be proving he does not need her company and presses into the touch with a shiver, rolling back over and wrapping an arm around her waist.

"Get some sleep," she says, hand resting at his neck again, heavy and grounding and comforting, and though he wants to protest, his eyes are heavy, her scent sweet against his face, and sleep sounds so _sweet_.

***

She wakes, not entirely sure what has woken her but already tensing—then Loki gives a low, pained noise, pitiful if not for how it sounds like he's _dying_.

"What's wrong?" she asks; Loki keens, twists over and presses into her _hard_ , hard enough she slides across the bed a little. Natasha flinches before she can stop herself—Loki this distressed means ice—but then realizes there's no ice, just like there hadn’t been earlier this evening. He’s panting, short and sharp, and she realizes he’s running _warm_ —for him, at least.

"Loki, tell me what you need," she orders, sharp enough to hopefully get through. She turns the bedside lamp on to get a better look at him. Loki hisses at the light coming on, flinching and then stilling. " _Loki_."

His eyes open again and she tilts his head up to get a better look at them—glassy, unfocused, pupils still adjusting for the sudden light.

"What are the nine realms?" she asks after a second.

"Midvanasjuheim," he slurs, then stops, panting; she can see him press his tongue to his teeth. "N'tsha. Canfeel my to-ton—"

"Tongue," she finishes for him, then lets go as he starts to twist with a choking noise.

"You have alcohol poisoning,” she states, rubbing his spine as he dry heaves—it's been _hours_ now, the clock is showing four in the morning; he's not going to throw up anything at this point.

Except. Throwing up is a perfectly normal _human_ response to alcohol poisoning, and probably Asgardian too for that matter; Loki’s more than proven he’s willing to fall back on patterns he knows to relieve stress, whether they’re effective or not. Frost giants take so long to process any food—she thinks of his slow slide to more and more intoxicated before, despite having drank early in the day. _Surely_ frost giants have ways of getting rid of toxins, even if throwing up isn’t one of them.

Ice.

She stares at where her hand rests on—too warm for Loki—blue skin, Loki shivering, and how for all his stress earlier there was no ice. Still _isn’t_ any.

"Fuck," she mutters, then to Loki, "Stay."

He manages to focus on her long enough to glare before his eyes close again, one arm wrapped around a pillow like it’s the world—it might be with how he's feeling. She leaves him, goes and starts a cold bath, then heads to the kitchen and the freezer.

Of _course_ there's no ice.

She stares at the freezer, debating what to do. She shouldn’t risk leaving—if SHIELD does come by, she’s going to be able to defuse the situation. No one will—should—think to call her if they break in and find Loki.

Loki keens again, awful and grating and low, cutting off sharply.

“Dammit,” she mutters, closing the freezer.

She stops by the bathroom, checks how cold the water has gotten. Cold, to her, but it’s not going to be cold enough to lower his temperature—she _hopes_ that the elevated temperature is what’s keeping him from being able to make ice. Shuts the water off, since if she’s going to leave she’s _certainly_ not leaving Loki unsupervised in the bath right now.

Loki is dozing and still panting, curled around the pillow he’d been gripping when she left; he doesn’t stir when she touches him. She kisses his forehead, hopes he stays asleep until she gets back, and heads out.

Maybe she’ll be lucky—SHIELD still hasn’t come by, and it’s early in the morning yet.

***

He wakes to _noise_ , to _movement_ —not Natasha—head pounding, opens his eyes ( _disoriented_ ). It’s so _loud_ , too loud, ricocheting around the room and making him feel nauseous and off-balance, but at least _now_ when he blinks the room settles to some extent, blurry mess that has a _promise_ of coherence in the edges that keep overlapping-blending-parting.

There’s several (he thinks, can’t tell, can’t _focus_ ), and they are talking—loud loud _loud_. Someone—metal, not _hot_ ( _he is so hot_ )—grabs him by the arm, is saying _something_ (“wrong…know how many parties.... something isn’t _right_ —“). He pulls back, shoves (tries to create ice), then curls in, aching-aching- _aching_ , hurts, he _hurts_ , like every fiber of his being has been _pulled_ at once, sharp needles driven beneath flesh and muscle, leaves him dizzy and blind and nauseous for a few horrible moments until his vision steadies (much as it can).

Focuses again and there is red and blue and white, filters dazed through what he knows (“made it sound like” “he _was_ I don’t know—“) thinks _the Captain_ and yes, yes, that is red and gold and he feels ill (further, beneath, he is _angry-hurt-betrayed_ ), tries to push himself away on shaking arms, looks for splash of red (like his eyes), but it isn’t there (she isn’t _here_ )(spider, why did he trus—)

“N’tsha,” he says, tries to say, but he still can’t feel his tongue, still can’t feel his own shape, feels dizzier for having moved. The room twists beneath him, there’s a hand on his arm again and he tries to shake it off, tries to grab at fury and _respond_ , but he can’t, he’s floundering, barely able to control himself, find himself, and the room is spinning-spinning- _spinning_ and then it isn’t spinning at all.

***

Natasha pauses a moment before she parks the car, then takes the time and trouble to park a block away, walking back.

She’s right—those are SHIELD cars. Generic, black, easy to pass over, but Natasha is familiar with them and how many there are isn’t making them stealthy. If she weren’t more concerned about Loki, she’d make a note to have them retrained on proper procedure.

There are agents telling people to return home, that nothing is wrong, and Natasha slips by them unrecognized, playing the part of nervous civilian right up until she turns down the walkway to her apartment. She straightens, jaw tightening as her mind flicks from the night prior to Loki's current state to her own ill-timed absence. She wants to swear, because of _all_ the times for them to come by…

She does not.

“Ma’am, you can’t—“

“Natasha! Finally someone _reasonable_.”

Natasha looks at Mrs. Jefferson, notes the relieved looking agent that she had cornered slipping away, and gives the old woman a slim smile.

“The Avengers came and snatched Luke up! Can you _believe_ the gall of these men, no warrant, nothing at all, claim Luke’s a dangerous criminal and needs to be taken in! Luke!”

“Is that so?” Natasha asks, staring at the junior agent that’s staring at Natasha over Mrs. Jefferson’s head.

Mrs. Jefferson pauses—clever woman—then glances between Natasha and the junior agent.

“Can you get him back?” Mrs Jefferson asks. “He didn’t look well at all, dear. For _shame_ , those men taking him like that.”

“They had sincerely better hope so,” Natasha replies, still staring at the junior agent, and watches him visibly flinch. “Do keep an eye on these men for me, Mrs. Jefferson. Do you want a camera?”

“Got one here, dearie, don’t you worry about me. You just get Luke back safe and sound.”

“Of course, Mrs. Jefferson.”

***

She is, above all, _furious_.

She does not allow herself to show it. She keeps herself under control, locks it away tightly, and makes her way to the tower, to the common area, and yes, there they are—Clint and Stark and Rogers. She wonders, briefly, if Thor had been around if he would have allowed this capturing of his brother while Loki is very clearly not well, but the thought is useless and she refocuses on the current situation.

“Boys,” she says. Rogers and Stark look up; Rogers more briefly, a quick nod that she returns because it would be unusual if she did not. Clint doesn't, focused as he is on the feed to one of the holding cells.

Very briefly, her vision goes a bit white at the edges.

“Tasha,” Clint says, “tried calling but you didn’t answer. We found Loki.”

Stark is looking at her, a bit pale, but he’s keeping his mouth shut—he recognized the laptop and phone. Considering that Clint does not currently look betrayed, he hasn’t yet told the other two.

“I see that,” Natasha asks. Her voice is too cold, too neutral, but it isn’t what catches their attention. “Would someone like to explain why you ransacked my apartment to do so?”

No, it isn’t her tone that gets their attention.

“Your apartment? Wait, what—wait, is _this_ the guy you’ve been—“ Clint’s mouth snaps shut, jaw ticking, and Natasha meets his gaze coolly, levelly, in total control—

Clint looks down and away first

—perhaps not.

“Would someone like to fill the rest of us in?” Steve asks, calm and reasonable, ever the peace-maker.

“I _was_ ,” Natasha says, “giving Loki a multitude of reasons to trust me, learn to like humans, and not cause us more problems down the line."

"You could have told us," Clint says, looking up at her again.

"I made an agreement with him."

"So what? He's an asshole—"

"So are you," Natasha interrupts; Clint's mouth snaps shut. "So are you. In fact, as I recall, you made a similar offer for me despite SHIELD’s recommendations."

"Tasha, don't, this isn't like that at all."

"We're a team, Natasha," Rogers says, voice a little hard.

"A trust exercise requires trust," Natasha fires back. "I made my call based on the information I had at the time he approached me, and deemed it unnecessary to risk him deciding I was lying by getting anyone else involved." She meets Rogers gaze, steel. "We all knew Loki was-- _is_ —volatile at the best of times, and it was certainly not that when he arrived."

Rogers nods after a moment. He never has been one for distrusting his teammates' judgment—or rather, not hers. It doesn't mean he's pleased, but she'll deal with his lecture later. Not now.

Her eyes drift to the feed again, the curled up form of blue.

"Where is he?"

None of them answer—not right away, not fast enough, and she returns her gaze to them, tries to keep her face calm. It must not work—Stark is trying to slide down into his chair, has been uncharacteristically silent. Complicit, even if he hadn't meant to be.

"Sub-basement two," Stark says first.

"Thank you," she says, "for your cooperation."

***

He aches—his head, his eyes, his muscles, his—his _chest_. ( _Of course_. How could he think she—the smile—she left, she must have known, planned it with that woman, Mrs. Jefferson, they _must have planned it from the start_ )

( _how could he be so foolish_ )

The room, at least, is stable, if he stays still, if he does not turn his head too quickly, even if he is still unbearably hot, and he can think, a little.

(Does not want to think because it _hurts_ )(she must have known, Natasha is clever and does not leave things to chance (oh how he _hates_ her), _months_ of this and oh how he _fell_ , was drawn in, how like the _beast_ he yet is, clinging to a little _kindness_ —

The door opens, and he looks up, the room taking a few seconds to slide with him until it focuses and there is splash of red (like his eyes)(beastly should have _known_ ) and there is _her_.

( _hurts hurts hurts how could she how could she and how could she **not**?_ )

"Natasha," he slurs instead, because ( _weak_ ) he still does not have full command of his tongue back, and he smiles at her like he is amused by her (deceit) cleverness. Unaffected ( _lie_ ).

She considers him for a moment, and oh, he may be a _fool_ , but he still knows well enough what she is doing—waiting for him to give her more to work with, just as he always has, but no. No, he is well and truly _done_ with clever minds that catch his attention (that he loves), should never have—

"Loki," she says (his heart twists)--how he _hates_ her.

He forces himself to his feet unsteadily, slowly (there is power in height and _perhaps_ it will silence the part of him that still _cares_ )(he thought—). The room is less balanced than when he was sitting, but he hardly cares now, because there are so many other things to make him nauseous (fury and hurt and spite and love)(oh _clever_ clever Natasha).

"You plan quite well." He forces the words past stumbling lips and half-numb tongue, forgets he should not be talking to her at all, should allow her to speak first. "Especially when so much was put together quickly. Perhaps I should take notes?" He moves towards her, but she stands her ground, arms folded and quiet. "Was it only your plan, or did your pet hawk _relish_ the opportunity? See the one who pushed his mind brought low at last. Well?” His voice is hoarse and speaking makes his head throb anew (he wants to lay down, wants to weep, to _mourn_ ), his breath rough and ragged and whatever control he had pretended when she first walked in is _gone_ (weak and weak, and oh how they must rejoice to see him this way, beast and _monster_ and—

"Loki," she says again, evenly, and reaches out to touch. Telegraphed entirely; his eyes flick from her to her hand too quickly, dizzyingly, cannot decide if he wishes to break her wrist or not. Settles for the middle ground, grabbing her by the wrist and squeezing, feels bones begin to bend, to grind together, and she winces ( _a show, like everything else?_ ).

“ _Why?_ ” he snarls, not even sure what he is asking.

(setting himself up to be lied to _just like always_ )

“I went to get ice.”

He blinks at her, settles back on his heels confused, grip loosening (not much) enough she puts her palm to his neck, thumb stroking the skin (warm, warm, and even too hot it is a comfort)(salt in the wound).

“You were—are—running hot because of the alcohol. Your temperature needs to go down. I went to get ice because there wasn’t any in the apartment.”

He blinks again, more slowly.

“You… you—the alcohol, Mrs. Jefferson, _you left_ —“ He shakes his head, tries to make himself step back and nearly stumbles instead. “ _Let me go_. I won’t—don’t—believe you, you _planned_ this.”

“With Mrs. Jefferson?” Natasha asks. He snarls, pushing her hand away, yet Natasha keeps talking, calm, reasonable (as if she takes him _seriously_ , not as if she is trying to mock), “She didn’t know. She’s worried about you. I think she’d be here if I hadn’t shown up.”

He pauses.

“I had every opportunity to give you over months ago, Loki,” she says, taking a step towards him, and this time he does not catch her hand when she raises it to his neck. “I have had every opportunity. Why would I wait until now when you’ve been worse than this? If I wanted to hurt you, I would have turned you over that first week, not waited for you to find yourself.” Her fingers rub along one of the patterns on his skin, and though he doesn’t reach for her, he is leaning forward, drawn to her as surely as the tides to the moon. “Why,” she asks, “would I risk finding you interesting by keeping you around?”

“Because,” he starts, but he stops, because he does not know and his head hurts, his chest, his limbs. All of him.

(here she stands, _fascinating_ , calm and measured, not _accusing_ him of being unreasonable, a hand at his neck to soothe)

“I am sorry,” she says, as if she has anything to apologize for.

“You did not tell.”

“No, Loki. I didn’t tell anyone.”

He closes his eyes, rests his forehead against her shoulder though leaning down to do so makes the room spin again, his hands on her waist for balance.

“I want to leave,” he whispers.

“Then let’s go,” she says.

And, despite vague fears that rise up--of being prodded, of not _leaving_ , of being stalled and questioned and a thousand other things (of her _lying_ )--that is all. They leave despite the protestations (each protest  _proof_ that soothes), her hand at his elbow to guide and to steady, until they are finally, finally, _home_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT ONLY TOOK FOREVER BUT HERE IT IS.
> 
> If last chapter was Loki-centric (it was), then this chapter is Natasha-centric.
> 
> And _this means_ that next chapter I can _finally_ start into the relationship negotiation/bdsm stuff that was the _whole reason_ I started to write this. 30k words of buildup is ridiculous, isn't it?

This is unexpected.

If Natasha is perfectly honest, what she was expecting was to be locked somewhere deep in SHIELD and interrogated, but being an Avenger comes with a number of perks—one of them Steve Rogers himself. The Captain is by no means pleased, if his silence and staring at her like he might figure her out if he just stares enough is anything to go by, but he also isn’t going to allow SHIELD to simply take Natasha _or_ Loki into custody and hide them away. Being Captain America comes with a great deal more sway than most people realize on any given day—including SHIELD.

She’s grateful. It means Loki is safely back at the apartment, sleeping off the last of the alcohol poisoning, even if there are SHIELD agents currently stationed to keep track of his movements, and it means she is here, in a windowed and well-lit room, trying to explain just what she was thinking in taking Loki in.

“Can I just point out it wasn’t me sleeping with the enemy?” Stark kicks his feet up on the table, lacing his hands over his stomach. “Because it wasn’t.”

“Shut up, Tony,” Clint snaps. He’s still glaring at Natasha, has been since she came back.

“If we’re honest, someone was going to. One of us has a track record, one makes questionable moral decisions all the time, and one is his brother,” Natasha points out mildly.

Clint only scowls more.

“That isn’t the point,” Steve says, at the same time Clint mutters, “I do not have a track record.”

Steve frowns and gives Clint a disapproving look before returning his attention to Natasha.

“I already explained my reasoning to you,” Natasha says.

“You did. And then you left with Loki in tow despite any and all objections.”

“Leaving him here after he requested to leave would have only damaged his trust more.”

“Yeah, about that—are you two actually sleeping together? Because he went from murder to cuddle pretty quick there,” Tony says.

“We are not.”

“Yet,” Clint adds. Natasha gives him a cool look, but it doesn’t shut him up. “If you’re telling the truth. You already admitted you were seeing someone, and he’s it, isn’t he?”

“If you are asking if I have some level of concern for his well-being, the answer is yes.” Natasha leans back in her chair, resting her chin in one hand. “If you’re asking if it’s romantic, the answer is no. You should know that, Clint.”

Clint’s mouth twists, nose wrinkling, but he settles back.

“Okay, so there’s a story I want to find out later.” Tony raises his hands, palms out, when both Natasha and Clint look at him. “Not now, of course. Right now we have the problem of Loki.”

“He’s not coming back into SHIELD custody,” Natasha says. “That means the small army of agents observing my apartment needs to go as well.”

“That isn’t going to happen, Natasha,” Steve says. “He’s a dangerous criminal who caused a great deal of damage to the city, killed a number of people, and hurt more. We can’t simply allow him to walk away once we know he’s around.”

“Which is _exactly_ why I didn’t inform any of you when he first arrived.”

“SHIELD is involved. You know as well as I do that I can’t control them.”

“I think you have more pull than you think and you’re refusing to use it. Loki stays out of custody.”

“Is there a particular reason you’re so invested in keeping him away?” Stark asks, curious. “I mean, this ends up being less hassle for you.”

“Loki is going to meet the requirements set by Asgard to get his magic back.” Natasha pauses, makes sure everyone is listening—even Clint. “When he does, and it is a _when_ , it is going to be in our best interests that he has every possible reason to like humanity.”

“She’s got a point. SHIELD has a terrible track record for getting people to like them,” Stark says. “I mean, even you don’t fully trust them, Steve.”

Steve sighs, the hard line of his shoulders slumping.

“I don’t like this. I don’t like not having him in custody.”

“That makes two of us,” Clint says, arms crossed.

“He isn’t going to do anything,” Natasha says. “He hasn’t for the past six months. He just wants somewhere he can be left alone.”

“Which is why he picked you, since you decided he’d make a great friend,” Clint says.

Natasha pauses, weighing what to tell them, how much to reveal. There are plenty of things she will leave in the dark, but right now truth will work in her favour.

“He picked me because he thought me most likely to kill him quickly and efficiently, out of all us.”

No one says anything, not for a few minutes.

“Must be as easy being blue as it is green,” Stark says first, but his mouth has turned down at the edges despite the humour in his voice. Steve looks no happier about it—Clint only maintains his scowl. She expected that, but at the least it gets two of three more in her favour.

“Frost giant,” Natasha says. “You’ve heard Thor talk about them. Asgard doesn’t exactly tell nice stories about them.”

“You’ll vouch for his continued good behavior?” Steve asks.

“Yes.”

“Okay. He can stay at your apartment.”

“And the agents?”

“Am I the _only one_ who remembers what the hell Loki did?” Clint interrupts. “Oh, wait, it might be because I’m the only one here who was involved with it. Against his will. That must make it stick better in the memory.”

“Clint, none of us here have forgotten what Loki did,” Steve says. “Tony certainly hasn’t, considering how often he mentions being thrown out of a window.” Tony flashes a quick smile, but Steve keeps going before he can interrupt. “But Natasha has a point as well. Loki is being punished for what he did already; when that’s gone, we need him not to see Earth as a target again. Natasha has the most experience dealing with him out of all of us at this point, and you know that people are her specialty. If she thinks Loki won’t do anything because of this, and is willing to vouch for his good behavior, then I’m willing to trust her judgment.”

Clint stays silent for a moment, staring flatly at Steve.

“Fine,” Clint says, “but I don’t agree with it.”

“Noted.”

Clint stands from the table, leaving. Natasha rises as well.

“Coulson wants to speak to you, too,” Steve says.

Natasha sighs, sitting back down. She’ll have to find Clint later then.

“Of course he does.”

Stark and Steve both get up to leave.

“This is why we don’t keep former enemies as pets,” Stark tells her. “All the meetings. They’re practically murder.” He smiles at her, clapping her on the shoulder, and then is out the door after Steve.

A few minutes later, Coulson walks in, all apologetic smiles, and Natasha smiles back, steeling herself for a few more hours of being passed from one authority to another.

***

Loki wakes, alone, head splitting and bones splintering—feel as if they are splintering. The sheets rustle as he moves, ice riming the folds as he pushes himself up; his nose wrinkles slightly. He feels as if he has been struck by a stray bolt of lightning, reorienting himself upon finding consciousness, hours stripped neatly from memory. He is, above all, thirsty.

He leaves the bedroom, pauses outside the door. Tilts his head, listening, but it is quiet, in here at least. Something else is amiss, but what? Walks down the short hall to the main room, still trying to place what is amiss (there is _something_ ). Natasha—Natasha would know, perhaps better, what memories have escaped.

(Finds himself smiling for the memory of her, her taste, her scent—

 _Scent_.

Someone else has been here. He stops, eyes searching the room, but there is no one here, not now, looks to the table and the missing laptop, the equally missing phone. His hands clench (memory stirs, slightly, fogged: the market, Mrs. Jefferson, alcohol. Begins to break down: alcohol, time slipping faster than before, Natasha, _understanding_ , Natasha—after—after—)

Water. Water first. There is no one but him here now—it is too quiet.

( _SHIELD_.)

His stride nearly breaks, but he presses on, gets a glass, gets water. Closes his eyes and drinks, organizing his thoughts through the pounding in his skull.

SHIELD and their Avengers. He can only vaguely recall being dragged out of bed, being too hot, but he is clearly not in their custody now. Natasha must have—but no, that is not quite right ( _“You did not tell them?” “No, Loki. I didn’t tell anyone.”_ ).

He refills his glass, drains it too.

Not a ploy, not by her—of that he is mostly certain (a relief, sweet and soothing).

Unfortunate, though, that his own carelessness has brought this about (how little it surprises him). It leaves the bitter question of what to _do_ (because Natasha is yet mortal, because staying here would be foolish, because eventually _Thor_ will return, because--).

He hears the door open, tilts his head towards the sound, places the stride. Natasha. He does not move from where he is leaned against the counter by the sink, listens to her steps head down the hallway. Waits.

“You’re awake,” Natasha says, blessedly soft. She has a bag slung across one shoulder. “Your things. Stark doesn’t like letting SHIELD get their hands on his custom-made tech.”

“And he thinks it is any safer with me?” he asks, genuinely surprised.

“He thinks you’re less likely to figure out the best way to kill people with it. He doesn’t know you very well.”

He smiles thinly, refilling the glass once more.

“You’re staying here,” Natasha says.

He raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of water.

“SHIELD isn’t going to take you back into custody. I’ve spent most of my day in meetings.”

“I imagine they were not particularly pleased when you brought me back.”

“No. There’s going to be an agent or two floating around the neighborhood.”

“Dependent on?”

She tilts her head, as if she is unaware what he is asking (another time he might be amused, pleased, but his head aches, he aches--her… _coyness_ only irritates).

“Don’t play dumb, Romanoff. I am aware how these situations go.”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with. As far as you’re concerned, the rules are the same as they were when you arrived.”

He downs the rest of the water (turns the words over in his head, prods at them, anger bubbling in his chest, chill and sharp).

“They are not,” he says, setting the glass down, turning to face her fully. “The rules before involved no one knowing I was here—this is a fundamental change, no matter how you try to hide it.”

“You aren’t going anywhere.”

“But how does this affect else? There was never a rule I could not leave and then return—has that changed? Where are the boundaries, Romanoff, if you will not say? Certainly your first rule is moot, that I may leave for good should I so choose. SHIELD will not be satisfied to allow me to disappear and go where I will.”

Natasha’s mouth tightens, knuckles briefly going white on the strap of the bag, and he smiles thinly.

“I did not think so.”

“You should have thought of that before threatening a civilian in public."

His mouth thins and for a moment he simply regards her. Words writhe on his tongue, sharp-edged and angry, but he does not speak them—holds them in until there is a sour taste on his tongue (remembers what it is to always hold his tongue).

( _He should have left._ )

“Let me be clear,” Natasha, and he is grateful insomuch as it keeps him from saying else to make his situation worse than it currently is (because at least she yet appears to be on his side), “I am doing everything I can to mitigate this situation, at great personal and professional cost both.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel indebted to you, Romanoff? Should I fall to my knees in gratitude that I have been allowed a more comfortable cage?”

“ _If_ you want to disappear,” she continues, as if he did not interrupt her, little more than her eyes narrowing to give her irritation away, “then you can. Is that what you want?” She sets the bag by the doorway, walks closer; he regards her carefully, does not lean away or forward, does not cross his arms.

“What use is leaving if I will only be followed?”

“That isn’t what I asked. Do you want to disappear?”

(Disappearing only begs the question of where he would go; for all an online persona he may have created these last months, he would not count upon anyone to take him in.)

“Not yet,” he says (not _no_ ).

Natasha examines him but a moment, then nods.

(If he does disappear, he should not tell her. What if--)( _she came for him, she cares she understands she did not betray him_ )(--she would tell? Mustn’t allow sentiment to let him grow incautious, not again.)

“For what it’s worth, I tried to keep this from happening,” Natasha says, stepping and turning away.

He very nearly tells her… what? That he forgives her? That it was his fault for not holding his temper? There is little words will do to make the situation any less than what it is.

“I am sorry,” he says, when her back is turned (when she cannot see to be sure he has spoken), quiet, because he can at least say that much.

(because he cares too much, and does not want her to blame herself; no matter that he knows she will not (she is not him), he offers the words aloud anyway, a confirmation)

To her credit, she does not turn, only bends to grab the bag and carry it with her out of the kitchen.

“It’s alright,” she says.

***

Clint tracks her down to talk before she can do the same to him. Well. He calls. Just as she’s getting in the car, not too terribly long after leaving the apartment, interrupting her thoughts on Loki’s… _brooding_ , which doesn’t bode anything good.

“ _Really_ , Natasha?”

She does not allow herself to sigh, though her lips thin.

“Let me buy you a drink,” she offers.

***

Thirty minutes later, she sets the jug of non-alcoholic cider on his coffee table and says,

“Really, Clint.”

He scowls at her, opening the jug and drinking straight out of it. She takes her coat off and gets comfortable.

“You were _there_ ,” Clint says.

“I was. I haven’t forgotten.” She crosses her legs, setting her hands on her lap.

Clint doesn’t say anything, just stares at her; Natasha doesn’t look away. She will admit that Clint knowing about Loki was not a situation she ever wanted to deal with--especially not finding out this way.

“Goddamnit Natasha,” he finally says, recapping the cider and getting up to go to the kitchen.

Natasha doesn’t follow him. She stays in the living room, waiting on him, listening to him rustle around the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing and dishes clattering, movement for no other reason than to seem busy. Or he’s putting his dishes away--she’s considered the possibility before the only reason he ever gets any dishes done is a result of him getting upset with her.

“What do you even see in him?” Clint asks, wiping his hands off on a towel.

“What did you see in me?” she asks.

He scowls again.

“Thanks for the cider.”

It’s a dismissal, but at least he’s still willing to thank her for anything. At least he's willing to talk to her. She can deal with that.

***

A bit surprisingly, she manages an entire night’s sleep before anyone tries to get in touch with her. More surprising, it’s Loki that contacts her first. Just a text— _we need to talk_ —but it’s still the first thing before even Steve’s phone call at eight.

“I’ll see you later,” she tells Steve over the phone, grabbing her jacket. She doesn’t put it on right away—the weather is actually warm outside—but she’ll want it when she arrives at the apartment.

“Natasha,” Steve starts, but she interrupts him, ignoring his huff of irritation.

“My priority is Loki right now. Considering that if he doesn’t think I have his best interests in mind things could get considerably worse than they are, you shouldn’t have a problem with that. I’m surprised no one else has realized that.”

“Placating him doesn’t resolve the threat he presents.”

“Really? It seemed to do pretty well there for half a year. Look, Rogers, we can talk about this later, but at the moment I’m a touch more inclined to make sure the resident Jotun doesn’t feel like he’s backed into a corner.” She hesitates a moment, leaving the keys in the ignition of the car without starting it. “You’ve already seen first-hand what his anxiety can do,” she adds, neutral.

“Anxiety—Natasha, are you suggesting that Loki tried to _take over Manhattan_ because he was _anxious_?”

“People have done worse for less legitimate reasons,” she says, giving a quick shrug though Steve can’t see it. “Anyway, I’ll swing by after I’ve seen what it is he wants, but I need to go now. Shouldn’t drive and talk on the phone at the same time.”

Steve is silent for a long moment, likely debating whether he should call Natasha on the fact she drives and texts all the time, which is far more dangerous.

“Alright,” he says. “Just let me know when you’ll be by.”

“Roger, Rogers.”

He huffs, but he’s smiling a little, too—it’s in his voice.

“See you later, Natasha.”

***

He hears the door open and nearly jumps out of his own skin. Ridiculous—he isn’t a boy, it’s only a question, idle, nothing _more_ or _less_ (his pulse still pounds at his throat, nearly strangling him).

(What if she _meant_ it? That he is… _interesting_ , and _all_  that implies.)

(Then… _then_ … perhaps staying will be alright. Enduring the tags and collars, all of it, _if_ \--)

“Natasha,” he greets, warm as he can manage, lets himself smile (it is easier than he would like to admit). “Peanut butter?” He offers her the jar, grins a bit wider (goes to thin it when he remembers his teeth and forces himself to stop).

“No thanks.” Natasha moves around the couch, raising an eyebrow in what might be amusement. “You look like you’re having fun. Did you get any sleep?”

He blinks at her; her eyes slip past him to the coffee table and a soft ‘ah’ escapes her throat.

“Coffee?” he offers, though he knows most prefer not to have it cold.

“No.”

“Your loss,” he tells her, and returns his attention to the coffee table. Natasha watches for a few moments, sitting down on the arm of the couch.

“Where did you even get that many legos?” Natasha asks after a moment, a touch fascinated.

“Mrs. Jefferson had them. Gave them to me last night, after you left.”

“She have you over for dinner?”

“She has not tried to eat me, no.”

“I mean—“ she pauses, then snorts, and he smiles. “You’re being difficult.”

“Mmm. You could at least offer to help. Perhaps I would not then.” This is not what he needs to say, but already he thinks he shouldn’t say it at all. There is no reason to ask this question, not really, he trusts her, she did not betray him, has not.

(not yet)

“So what do we need to talk about?” Natasha asks, as if sensing the movement of his thoughts. He keeps himself from frowning, turning his attention to looking through the pile of legos next to him for the appropriate colour and piece.

“Can I simply not wish your company?” he asks, innocent.

“You can. That isn’t what it sounded like from your text. You would have just asked if you wanted it.”

“Hardly.” He grabs the piece he needs, snapping it onto the slowly growing wall before him.

Natasha hums. Then,

“Yeah, you’re right. You would have complained you were bored instead.”

He glances at her, unsure if he should scowl or smile that she’s noticed (but then, if anyone would, it would be her, and isn’t that the crux of his problem?) She is smiling, just the barest curve of her lips to indicate it amuses her and she is not mocking—a true smile, for her.

(He is not a boy, he should simply spit it out.)

(he doesn’t need to know, it is not worthwhile, it will make no difference, she did not betray him, she did not turn him over, she brought him back, she--)

( _but what if_ \--)

“Loki?” she prompts, and he looks away, to his slowly growing lego castle on the coffee table.

“Did you mean it, when you said you found… that I am interesting?” He looks at her, straightens his shoulders, but he does not quite meet her gaze, does not look at her beyond what he needs to read her. As if he will not still wish to believe her if she tells him what he desires to hear.

(He needs to know.)

“Ah.” She leans back, folding her arms. Thinking. He keeps himself still, eyes heavy-lidded as he watches her. "I should have—“ she bites the words off, frowning.

“Ah,” he echoes with more bitterness than he means to, lips twisting into what might pass for a smile if he were only a better liar.

“No,” Natasha says sharply. “I meant it. I do find you interesting. I didn’t consider the meaning behind saying it the way I did, but I meant it and I do mean it. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Is that so, Romanoff?”

“Yes.” That, at least, she says without hesitation, but the weight pulling his shoulders is still just as heavy as it was before.

“Then what, pray tell, did you mean?”

That, she does not answer immediately, arms still folded across her midsection as she frowns. Thinking. He keeps his tongue still instead of goad her (because she is giving _consideration_ to him, to explain her own words properly)(too rare a gift to simply toss aside).

“You’re asexual,” she says, finally, pausing so he has time to nod warily. “But that doesn’t mean your body can’t get aroused, or that you don’t enjoy touch.”

He frowns just slightly, but does not interrupt.

“There are different reasons to enjoy touching someone, and they don’t have to involve sex.”

He nods again, wondering just what point she is trying to get at.

“I’m not the same as you. I enjoy sex, it’s not just a tool to me—it can be just because I’d like it, too.”

He considers, tilting his head slightly, brows drawing together.

“I do not understand what point you are making,” he says at last. “You—can find me interesting and still enjoy sex. It’s not as if it would be the first time such occurred.”

“Like you, Loki,” she says, smiling slightly, and he scowls at her—even as his chest warms, _pleased_ , to hear the words aloud. “I can like you. But that’s assuming that we mean the same thing when we say interesting, and I don’t think that we do. You want a relationship, probably romantic?”

“I would not be opposed to the idea,” he says, but he keeps some measure of reserve and caution to his words. “Looking past your human life span and company you keep.”

“How generous of you. But that’s my point—when you say _fascinating_ , you mean romantic love.”

“As opposed to?”

“There are different kinds of love, Loki.”

“If you want to say that you don’t return the sentiment, then spit it out,” he snaps. “I am not some _child_ who will take offense.”

“I find you interesting,” Natasha says evenly, not breaking her gaze. “But that means something different for me than your ‘fascinating’. I don’t experience romantic love, not like what you do.”

“What?”

“I’m aromantic.”

“I—why? It is not as if you did not know what I meant—you’ve certainly displayed as much—and yet you parroted back my words—why? Because it was what I wished to hear?”

“I said ‘interesting’, not ‘fascinating’, to start—“

“Semantics,” he snaps. “And you know it. You said as much just a moment ago. You _knew_ —“

“Just because I can’t love you romantically doesn’t mean that I don’t love you in other ways.”

“As if you would be familiar with the word. What was it that you said? Love is for children—is that how you view those who feel the emotion, Romanoff?”

“Loki,” Natasha says, voice cold and emotionless, and _oh_ why did he ever think—

(foolish, to think, just like always, to _believe_ that perhaps there were something to her actions beyond manipulation—ah, but isn’t he always hoping?)

He pushes himself to his feet, restless, not caring that it shows his agitation—all this time, _of course_ she’d be aware when he’s agitated even if he weren’t pacing, she’s had _months_ to figure him out and _of course_ he thought, perhaps—

“One only needs to be as broken as you to truly move beyond such a petty thing as _love_ , do they not?” Loki asks, and he smiles, baring his teeth. “Which moment was it, I wonder? Before or after you found Barton? Perhaps earlier than that, surely you were taught all the failures of that emotion long before then.”

Infuriatingly, Natasha does not react to the words, not in a way that would ease any of his hurt, any of this betrayal of _months_ (but then why did he expect that, knowing what he does now). She only tilts her head slightly to side, eyes relaxed though her arms are still crossed over her torso.

“Are you done?” she asks.

“I could continue until we are sure of the moment, but what would it matter?”

She shrugs with one shoulder, head dipping to match the motion.

“Then I’ve got a question for you.”

He does not like her questions, with their tendency to redirect the conversation, to turn it upon its head—how clever she is (how much he adores her cleverness even now), but what does it matter? What could she possibly say now that would change this hurt?

“Then ask,” he says.

“What broke you?”

He raises an eyebrow, because for all he might sometimes be given to the thought, she has never before suggested it of him.

“What made it so you can’t see sex as anything but a tool? Was it Thor? Older brothers do things to younger, if they’re sick enough—I wouldn’t peg Thor for the type, but it’s always the ones you suspect least, isn’t it? Or was it Odin?”

“How dare you—“ he starts, but she interrupts him smoothly, head tilted and eyes distant, as if she is only examining an insect that has started to speak.

“It was probably family, wasn’t it? They’re the ones most likely, and who’d believe the liar prince if he said anything? More, what would anyone be able to do, even if they believed you?”

“There was nothing and no one that did such to me! My lack of desire for sex is not the creation of some tragedy, but a part of myself, no more and no less, and how _dare_ you suggest otherwise!” he hisses, stalking towards her, incoherent and blind rage (it is _his_ flaw, none else, and to _dare_ suggest that he was made _victim_ , to suggest that _Thor_ of all people might--). Natasha does not move, only tilts her head so she can still see his face, and her lips twitch in a cruel smirk.

He stops, mind echoing her words by his own only minutes before. His scowl softens to a frown, but he does not yet speak, doesn’t move closer. Just stares at her, half-smothered by shame welling up in his chest and throat and leaving his tongue too heavy.

(He should have _known_ , from his own experience if nothing else, and yet…)

He closes his hands into fists, ignoring the thin layer of ice that crunches at the movement.

“I care about you. I love you in the ways that I can love a person. I understand on an intellectual level that for you love means romantic love, and that romantic love is tangled up in a mess of actions, words, and more. I told you I find you interesting because those are words you would understand.” Natasha pauses, the distance on her face breaking to something more familiar, kinder, but he can barely stand to look at her (can barely stand himself). “I am telling you I’m aromantic _now_ because I need you to know I can’t give you what it is you’re offering me, not the same way, not if you want anything beyond how things were before between us. That whatever test your question is, I didn’t betray you and I won’t because I love you in the ways that I can, and I find you interesting in all the ways that mean I would be willing to try a relationship that could meet _both_ of our needs.” She reaches out, to touch him he thinks, and he steps back only to stop short as he nearly comes down on the pile of legos.

“Don’t,” he chokes out as she stands, shaking from anger and hate and upset ( _idiot_ ).

(he should not have stayed)

“Is that what you needed to know?” she asks, stopping (because he asked; he doesn’t deserve her).

(he should have _left_ , for her own good if not his)

( _should leave_ , and oh how it _aches_ that the answer he’s been given has only confirmed it, if not for the reasons he thought)

“Why?” he asks, but he isn’t sure what he is asking, what answer he hopes for—if he even hopes for an answer.

She is quiet a breath.

“You’re interesting. Why else do you need?”

He snorts, looking away, eyes roaming without seeing the coffee table, the room even.

“Think about it. I’ll be back later. Try to sleep—you don’t look like you have.”

He forces a smile.

“Of course.”

She leaves, though he doesn’t look at her. Only paces the apartment, turns her words over, tries to _think_ though thought is slow and quick to twist back upon itself. He paces the apartment from end to end, tries to turn on music, on television, on _anything_ , but nothing manages to smother the sick feeling in his chest and throat, nothing to tell him he should not have left as soon as he was sure she was gone.

He stops in the middle of the living room, looking around. Leaving will, perhaps, be slightly trickier with SHIELD aware of him, but….

***

She’s angry, when she leaves, even if she managed to keep it as contained until she was in the car again. Loki’s offense and words shouldn’t mean anything to her—it’s not like Natasha hasn’t dealt with people accusing her of being broken before—but the issue is, of course, that she _cares_.

Which means it matters.

She stays in the car when she gets to Avengers Tower, grinding her teeth and hands still gripping the steering wheel. Loki lashes out at any perceived betrayal, particularly when it’s one that actually hurts him—she knows this, his volatility is part of why she finds him as interesting as she does.

That doesn’t mean she has to _like it_ when he decides that means _her_. When he doesn’t use the same intelligence that she also admires to _think_ two seconds, to look at what she’s done for him and realize even if she can’t love him romantically, she cares.

Even if he seemed to realize what he was saying after she pushed back, it doesn’t ease the anger. About this entire situation, from SHIELD to Loki’s need to be sure she cares to the team debating whether she’s on their side. _Everyone_ needing to know whose side she’s on, and not listening despite Natasha saying that she’s on _all_ their sides because—shocker— _their sides don’t conflict_.

Not this time, at any rate.

She takes a few more deep breaths, finally able to start to work through her fury and set it aside for when she can work it out physically. She’s going to talk to Steve, see if she can’t get him to help more—because like hell is she going to let Loki upsetting her keep her from proving him _wrong_ that she can't care—and then spend the night in with bad movies and cheap take out.

***

Talking to Steve is in actuality being lectured to by Steve. Eventually, he peters off, staring at her like he just might manage to figure her out.

“At least you’re being honest now,” Steve says with a sigh.

“Lying would only make things worse,” Natasha points out.

“How so?”

“Don’t play dumb, Rogers. I lie to you now, you’ll think I’m compromised. I lie to Loki, he’ll lash out. There’s a time and place--this isn’t it.”

“Until we stop expecting you to lie and you can hide things again? That isn’t how trust works.” Steve frowns, eyes sad.

“I acted in everyone’s best interest,” Natasha says as gently as she can. “Including my own. I have never claimed to be a good person.”

Steve rubs his face, looking away.

“You said something about anxiety, on the phone.”

Natasha nods.

“Explain, please.”

“He’s volatile. You knew that already. He fixates and loses sight of the other details involved. Everything turns from happening to other people to being an attack on him.” Natasha pauses, eyes narrowing as she studies Steve’s face. “Don’t think for a second he’s not dangerous. It's just he wants somewhere to hide right now. He has no interest in making a second attempt and from what he’s said, he only did the first because he was both bored and it was a chance to get home.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, mouth opening then closing. His brow furrows.

“You asked him about the invasion and he answered?”

Natasha gives a quick shrug with one shoulder and a brief nod. She can’t stop the quirk of a smile that touches the corner of her mouth.

“I was even straight-forward about it.” Mostly; she did ask directly about the invasion, even if it ultimately wasn’t the information that she was looking for. “Being clear and honest with him is the only way to effectively handle him, Rogers. How else do you think I kept him confined for six months without any help?”

“Thank you,” Steve says. “Just… be careful, okay? You don’t have to keep everything hidden, you know. We’re a team.”

Natasha smiles, this time genuine and small.

“I know,” she says. “I’ll see you later, Rogers, unless you have any other questions?”

“No. See you later, Natasha.”

***

It's a foregone conclusion Pepper knows what's happened--after all, Natasha was the one to recommend she be given any clearance Stark was. What Natasha _doesn't_ know is how Pepper's reacting to it. She has guesses, but she'd prefer certainty.

She can’t really be blamed for being cautious when Pepper acts like nothing’s happened over dinner. She’s worked with her before, after all--how Pepper sounded on the phone isn’t much to base her assumptions on.

Pepper doesn't bring Loki up.

Natasha knows this means that she should, but it's nice to pretend for the hour that nothing's changed at all between them--even if Pepper's lack of comment means things almost certainly have.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Pepper asks just as they're finishing dinner.

Natasha raises an eyebrow; she's never been one to assume what she's being asked about. 

"With Loki," Pepper clarifies.

Natasha shrugs.

"Sure. More than anyone else who's involved now anyway."

Pepper nods.

"Anything else?" Natasha asks when it's clear Pepper isn't going to say anything else.

"Be careful. One person I care about getting thrown out of a window is enough." Pepper taps a finger against the table, lips pursing. "Don't let how much you care get in the way."

Natasha nods instead of comment on how Pepper doesn't do the same. Pepper smirks like she’s fully aware she doesn’t listen to her own advice.

“Let me buy you dessert,” Natasha says, smiling back. “I hear it makes up for all kinds of things.”

***

“For what it’s worth,” Pepper says later, just before getting in her car, “I think you’re doing the right thing.” She smiles just slightly, her self-aware one that Natasha loves best. “Not that you need to hear that from me.”

“I’m glad that you think so all the same.”

“I’ll spin it for Tony.”

“I’ll make sure no more people get thrown out of windows.”

“Deal,” Pepper says with a wink and slips into her car.

Natasha stands by herself for a few moments after Pepper leaves, putting her hands in her coat pockets and watching traffic go by. She’s still smiling, but then, Pepper always has been able to get that out of her. If she’s entirely honest, she was worried about her friendship with Pepper. Whether she can get by without Pepper isn’t the point--that’s one bridge she’d prefer not to burn.

She shakes her head, pulling out her phone to text Loki that she won’t be by tonight after all. Maybe, if she’s lucky, the time to sit a bit longer will keep him from being entirely unbearable later.

***

By the next morning, Loki still hasn’t replied to the text. Natasha doesn’t let herself think anything of it--she’s got another psych eval that SHIELD wants her to go through for all the good it will do them, and after that is one of the weekly training sessions with the team. She’s looking forward to the excuse to work off some of her frustration. That it will be another pointed reminder to the team they need her around doesn’t hurt either. Lunch with Pepper--a surprise and thank you for the night before--and then a little quality time with Clint on the practice range leaves her feeling nearly normal if she disregards some of the tenser smiles and quiet unease that had started off nearly all of the meetings. She pretends not to notice she's been taken off the more sensitive work she had originally been on, pretends that it makes a difference to how much she knows.

It’s nearly midafternoon before she realizes that her growing sense of unease is directly tied to how she still hasn’t received any response from Loki.

Natasha is aware that he’s ashamed of himself. She also knows she’s more likely to get an apology out of Stark than she is Loki. That he’s refusing to even text back, though, is uncharacteristic, particularly considering Loki’s own fretting that a message hasn’t been seen until it’s been responded to.

She’s being ridiculous. It’s not even been a full day. If he wants to sulk about his ability to shove his foot in his mouth, she’s not going to bother him, no matter that she’s not particularly angry at him anymore.

But maybe she’ll stop by this evening anyway.

***

_My apologies for what I said to you. Thank you for your hospitality, and farewell._

Natasha holds the note for a few long moments, then picks up her phone.

***

“--told you this would—”

“I just don’t get how he managed to—”

“--need to organize a search for—”

Natasha watches the others argue circles, arms crossed. She doesn't bother to add to the conversation, if it can be called that, only listens and keeps her face still. It's amazing how quickly Loki has riled her again, interesting in its own way, and makes her wonder vaguely if Clint had half so much trouble with her all those years ago.

She tells herself it's interesting, but not surprising.

"Natasha?" Steve asks her. Natasha doesn't startle, but her lips tighten a moment as she realizes she lost the thread of what they were saying.

"Yes?" she asks evenly.

"What do you think would be the best course of action?"

"Let him go," Natasha replies, shrugging.

"Why the hell did you bother telling us then?" Clint asks; for all his language, there's no heat to it. He's looking to weigh the answer.

“Where’s the value in it? You already know he’s not here, and it wouldn’t take much to realize that he had left with the apartment under surveillance. Not to mention it proves my point--he wants to be left alone, not lead another invasion. If the apartment _hadn’t_ been under surveillance, none of this would have happened in the first place.” Maybe it’s petty, letting her temper show a little, but she can’t help it. It’s been a trying couple of days.

“Unless he’s escaped so he can try to do something _else_ crazy,” Clint says, ignoring the pointed comment. It’s measured, though; he’s considering this like he would a target, not like it’s Loki, and Natasha is intensely grateful that he’s managing to put aside his understandable dislike to listen.

“In which case he won’t stay hidden for long, we capture him, and bring him in,” Steve says. “Natasha, if that happens—”

“I know,” Natasha says shortly.

***

Natasha doesn’t look for him, doesn't even bother asking Mrs. Jefferson about her suspiciously missing car. Not because she herself is under surveillance--she knows exactly how to slip past that.

But she told him, before, that if he wanted to leave she would make sure he could. Maybe she didn’t arrange _how_ he left, maybe it took her by surprise, but he’s made his choice.

Natasha keeps her promises, at least when she can. When it counts.

It doesn’t stop her from missing the idiot.

***

A few days later, she forgets she doesn’t need to buy more food for Loki. For a few long moments she stands in the empty apartment with the fridge full of nearly spoiled things, bags of new supplies by her feet.

She throws everything out. She keeps her face still although there’s no one there to see.

Every now and then, her jaw tenses. She ignores it.

***

“How do you think he’s managing the heat?” Pepper asks her over coffee two weeks later.

Natasha takes a sip of her own, ignoring how her stomach drops at the mention of Loki and heat. Today it broke the eighties; she knows that if he doesn’t have proper shelter and air conditioning—

She cuts the thought off.

“Who knows?” Natasha says coolly instead of confess her worry. “He can be a fair hand at planning when he thinks of it.”

“Mm. Did he think of it though?”

Natasha shrugs and pretends not to care, not to notice the way that Pepper’s watching her.

Two weeks is plenty of time to force herself to forget all the ways she enjoyed his company. To let go of her worries and idle thoughts and the overwhelming absence of his texts, of _him_.

“It’s not as if I can just go check up on him, is it? He made his choice.”

“True enough,” Pepper says. “I wouldn’t want to be under SHIELD observation knowingly either. I don’t know how you manage.”

***

He’s made a mistake.

( _Only one?_ )

It is hot. Miserably, horribly hot, and without somewhere he can stay where it is cool--without being able to risk the city and it’s cameras and people no doubt looking for him, he is fully and utterly aware of it. His head is splitting from all the light, skin aching and likely burned based off its slowly purpling hue and how sore he is.

(Everything was going so _well_ , but the last town he was staying, he saw _recognition_ and he’d needed to leave, nevermind the car Mrs. Jefferson had given him was still being repaired. He can’t risk—)

He’s thirsty. Constantly, horribly thirsty.

( _It is for the best._ It’s a dull thought, repeats and throbs in his skull in time with his migraine, constant and steady as a drumbeat. _It is for the best._ )

(He doesn’t deserve—)

He swallows, opening his eyes to look at the trees around, the road that keeps going forward like a promise if he can only follow it far enough.

(He doesn’t want to die. He’ll stop when he gets to the next town along the road, long enough to cool off. One of the little ones, where there is little chance of anyone knowing his face. Just a while. Then to--north. North. It can’t be this hot if he just keeps _going_.)

It’s effort, to get back to his feet, but he does. He just needs time to regroup.

(To drink a lake, he is so _thirsty_. If he could only stop this damnably instinctive need to cool off, the ice that keeps crawling over his skin in some poor attempt to cool down. To think he’d begun to have some contr—

 _Water_. He needs water.

He starts to walk once more.

***

He gets off the road when there are cars. It’s so hard though, so much _effort_. He stumbles as often as he manages to crouch.

One foot—

He trips, falls, and lays against the dust and rock and asphalt. His skin hurts, _he_ hurts, he is thirsty and _tired_ and all he can hear is the dull thud of his pulse, hard and painful against the inside of his skull. He swallows, but there’s nothing there, just sandpaper and dust and he is—

The air shimmers and Loki wonders if this is what it is to go mad. Again.

( _Falling, falling and falling and fal—_

He hisses and curls in on himself at the sharp pain beneath his skin, the thin layer of frost that manages to leak across his skin. He’s not falling, only dying--truly dying, there’s no landing, no talking his way out, _no no no_ —

A touch on his arm. He cracks his eyes open, wonders vaguely if this is a mirage, realer than any illusion he’d ever managed to cast.

“N’tasha?” he says, tries to say, but his voice creaks and rasps and nothing at all intelligible comes out. Red hair, lovely red hair, but the shade is all wrong, it’s too straight, did she change her hair? She turns her head away, is talking to someone, and he tries to follow but the world reels.

He’s so tired. This all so much effort and he hurts and he’s thirsty and he can’t, he _can’t_ —

***

When Loki wakes, it’s cool. Not comfortable, not truly bearable, but _relief_ from the heat that radiates beneath his skin and that was smothering him before. His mouth is still dry, lips cracked, but he doesn’t feel…

He’s in a bed. He jerks upright as he realizes. The room is unfamiliar ( _he failed_ ) and he hisses as his eyes land on someone he doesn’t recognize--broad and bald and in a suit, hands up as if to try to placate him.

( _Of course_ \--of course he was caught, how _stupid_ , he cannot truly expect to _ever_ esc—)

Natasha walks in. No--not Natasha. He recalls vaguely the wrong before he collapsed and realizes that this must be who he thought was Natasha. She has red hair, but the hue is wrong, more gold than Natasha’s own bloody red that matches his eyes.

“It’s okay, Happy.”

The man--Happy, who looks anything but--gives Loki a dubious look. Loki returns the favour, because he has no idea who these people are but he recognizes this--one will play nice while the other won’t, try to get his guard down.

But _why_?

(What if they are not SHIELD, what if he has landed somewhere _worse_ , what—)(he _deserves_ worse, it’s all he deserves—)

He forces his hands still. Without the surge of adrenaline from when he first woke, he already can feel himself beginning to tire again, notice all the aches and pains, the searing internal heat of his burnt skin.

The woman smiles.

“You’re probably confused. I’m Pepper Potts, a friend of Natasha’s.”

Loki’s eyebrows shoot up.

“No, she didn’t send me.”

Loki settles back more against the bed, scanning the room. It’s a motel room (they haven’t taken him back), but that means there’s really only the one door and window out. He isn’t sure he can trust his legs to hold him long enough to get past both of them or if he should yet.

(He’s so _tired_. Everything hurts and the room wavers at the edges--exhausted and…)

“Here,” Pepper says. She’s holding out a bottle of water. He watches it, eyes flicking between her and the proffered bottle.

( _A friend of Natasha’s._ )

He takes it.

***

Pepper doesn’t say anything when he drinks through the first bottle of water, nor does she say anything as he drinks the next two. She doesn’t even looked surprised or frightened when he’s hydrated enough to actually be able to produce ice again.

It makes his skin ache, but it’s not the sharp needle pain of trying of before. He feels light-headed for the instinct, but it’s far too much relief to avoid it.

“Do you want anything to eat?” Pepper asks politely.

Loki shrugs.

(She doesn’t flinch under his scrutiny. She doesn’t look up from what has her attention, she doesn’t prod.

As mysterious and blank as when he first met Natasha. It sets him ill at ease.)

“Why are you here?” he asks instead.

“Natasha mentioned you don’t deal well with heat.”

He narrows his eyes, but she only continues to look serene.

“A report came in that you were in the area. Your car was still in the shop when we got there.” Pepper makes a dismissive motion with her hand and Loki realizes he had tensed instinctively. “It never made it to SHIELD. I’ve had Jarvis keeping an eye on anything relating to you just in case something like this happened.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.”

Loki raises an eyebrow. He finds that hard to believe--she could have simply sent someone in her place, or brought him here and left before he woke.

“I want you to come back,” Pepper admits.

“Absolutely not.”

(He _can’t_ , he doesn’t deserve that, doesn’t—)

He tries to make his stomach settle, tries to breathe, tries to ease the panic in his chest.

(What if she makes him? What if he doesn’t get a _choice_? What if—)

“Hey,” Pepper says, and he realizes that she’s closer, closer than she was, leaning on the bed and a hand half outstretched towards him. He tries to lean back from her ( _coward_ ), then stops moving (pretends he was not startled). “Breathe. In and out.” She frowns, a little dip forming between her eyebrows, concern making soft features softer. “I won’t let anyone take you and I promise I won’t force you to go back. But she misses you.”

“I do not miss her,” Loki says, the words thick in his throat.

( _Liar-liar-liar_.)

(Her laugh and her smile and her hair and her touch and her kindness and her knife edge and her)(he does not deserve such, he knew this this is why he asked and he—)

“Breathe,” Pepper says.

“I cannot go back,” Loki says instead, not meeting her eyes. If he only says it enough, perhaps he can make this true.

(If only it were so easy.)

“Why not?”

He shakes his head. Admitting he cannot is too much; to voice why to anyone but himself would be to expose too much of his innards, leave himself more defenseless than he is.

He can see Pepper frown in his peripheral, but she does not press again. It is a _relief_ \--he almost wishes to thank her for it.

“At least come back. I can get you set up in an apartment that no one knows about, out of the heat, have a doctor look you over. There’s no way that three bottles of water is going to fix everything wrong with you. I can keep it off the record. If you collapse again, get found again, there’s no guarantee that will be the case.”

Loki closes his eyes.

(It sounds so _nice_. To rest. To not need to keep going. _To hide_.)

“You will not tell anyone.”

“I promise. Only if you ask me to.”

Loki swallows.

(He is so tired.)

“Alright.”

***

“Do you know why he left?” Pepper asks.

They’re doing lunch again; they almost always do on Thursdays when they’re both available.

Natasha considers lying. She knows that SHIELD doesn’t have this place bugged--Pepper and Stark both have been incredibly vigilant ever since Natasha managed to infiltrate, much to SHIELD’s despair. Natasha had known that would happen; it’s one of the many reasons she’s glad she’s friends with Pepper now.

“We had an argument,” Natasha says at last. Pepper is her closest friend after Clint, has been the most sympathetic about Loki; more, there’s no one else Natasha would ever be willing to tell this.  “If you can call it that.”

“It wasn’t quite that, was it?”

Natasha smiles tightly.

“No.” She thinks back, shifts in her chair and lets the silence pool. It’s not uncomfortable; Pepper just waits, calm and serene. “He wanted to know if I was telling the truth about liking him, which seemed as good a time as any to tell him that I’m aromantic.”

Pepper winces.

“He practically tried to eat his own foot. I pointed out the issue with his reasoning.” Natasha shrugs. “So, to answer your question, shame. He left a sincere apology and skipped town.”

Pepper worries at her lip.

“He doesn’t think he deserves you?”

“He probably doesn’t.” Natasha gives a dry chuckle. “He’s not a particularly kind person.”

“No. But he’s your sort of person.”

Natasha pauses a moment.

“Yeah,” she says quietly, “he is. I care about him—”

“--all the ways you can. You don’t have time to go chasing after him every time he does something stupid. You’re not his keeper, he made the choice he thought was right without asking you or waiting to see what else you thought. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

Natasha looks at Pepper; Pepper just looks back. She’s so steady, so steel and sure; Natasha wishes, briefly, more people knew about the foundation that Pepper provides, her surety.

“Damn straight,” Natasha says. “Want another round of drinks?”

***

The apartment is spacious. Far more spacious than Natasha’s.

(He misses the sound of neighbours, a soothing white noise of _not-alone_ that he did not need to interact with. He misses the kitchen with its too small counters, he misses the traces of Natasha’s perfume, misses the space between the bed and the wall beneath the windows, misses—)

He thinks it must take most of a floor, if not the entire floor. There’s so much light, so much space, and it is unnaturally high off the ground.

(He avoids looking out at night, at all the glittering stars, at the fall that waits.)

Mostly, he sleeps. His skin is healing, the purple slowly fading back to blue. The aches fade and he can hardly feel them, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

Sleep, at least, comes easy.

(He should see her, he should apologize, he should ask--)

***

“Hey.”

Natasha spares a glance from where she’s working over a practice dummy. It’s nothing difficult, just raw physical effort for a while, so she can stop thinking about how today it broke ninety Fahrenheit. Loki can take care of himself. He chose that. Natasha isn’t worried.

Clint stands just out of reach--wise--with his hands in his pockets.

Natasha ignores him and goes back to her routine, one last roundhouse kick sending the dummy flying.

“What is it?” she asks when he still hasn’t said anything. She catches the towel that he throws to her, wiping sweat off.

“I want you to know if Loki shows back up for some reason and he’s not blowing stuff up--or doing anything…” Clint wiggles his hands “you know. Dastardly shit. That _you’ve_ got my support.”

Natasha blinks.

“ _Not_ him. Just you. I still hate his guts.”

“What brought this on?”

“He still hasn't resurfaced and there's nothing on fire. When you went AWOL after you started, I would have lost my job if it wasn’t for Coulson believing me when I said you needed space. You did a lot of shit that had a lot of SHIELD calling for your blood before I vouched for you, but I didn’t let it stop me.” He pauses, looks down. “I get it. Where you’re coming from.”

Natasha nods.

“Thank you,” she says when he’s looking back up.

“He’s still an asswipe.”

Natasha tries to suppress a smile, fails. Clint smirks back at her.

“I’m sure certain members of SHIELD think the same of me.” She puts a hand on his arm. “But really, thank you. I don’t see him showing back up, but I appreciate it.”

Clint rolls his eyes.

“Have you looked in a mirror? He’ll be back. No one else can keep up with that bag of cats for a brain anyway.”

***

Loki wakes to Pepper standing in the main room, phone pressed to her ear. Loki watches her move around for a few moments, trying to gather himself together enough to care that she’s here, to wonder what it is she wants.

He doesn’t move.

He’s nearly fallen back asleep again when Pepper stops next to him. Loki opens his eyes, glances up at her uncertainly, then back down at the phone she is holding out.

“It’s for you,” she says, maddeningly serene as ever.

(She reminds him, a little, of his mother.)

He takes the phone, presses it to his ear. There’s a little nervous buzzing beneath his skin—

(he’s too tired to manage more than that)

“Luke, dear, are you alright?”

He freezes. Mrs. Jefferson. He smothers the ice that tries to creep along his skin just before he destroys the phone, tries to remember the dullness he has been drowning in, the apathy, but his throat is tight and he does not know what to say--he _failed_ , she did so much for him and he-he--

“Ms. Potts there was just letting me know that she picked you up, that you’d had a little fuss with the heat and the sun. Such a dear, she told me that you were doing fine, but you know, I just insisted to talk to you, you’ve been having such a hard time of it lately—”

\--her car, it was being repaired, and what of the money she loaned him, and finally, _finally_ , he manages to swallow the panic caught in his throat to interrupt.

“Your car—”

“Just fine. Ms. Potts had someone bring it by the apartment, it’s right as rain again. She’s offered to get me a new one, you know that? I told her not to fuss, but she’s insisting. Don’t you worry your head about that, not one bit. I wouldn’t have given you anything I expected to see back--no offense, Luke, but I didn’t think to hear from you again.” She pauses a breath. He blinks, tries to swallow the sentiment welling in his throat again ( _bewildered_ , that she still cares so, that she, she—) “Now how are you doing?”

( _Tired-tired-tired_ , he wants to _sleep_ , he hurts, a constant dull ache in his breast, a failure and he does not deserve this, he wishes he could simply—

“I have been better,” he admits.

“Oh Luke. Honey. If you don’t mind, I want to come see you. I’ll bring you some of those cookies you like so much--not too many, mind, we both know you can’t eat too many--we’ll have a little chat. What do you say? You don’t have to, you know you don’t, but you sound like you aren’t up to going out again and you need the company. It can’t be good for you to stay cooped up all the time, I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

“I…” He swallows. “I would like that.”

“Good. You hand the phone back to Ms. Potts and we’ll take care of all the details. You just take care of yourself for me, you hear? I’ll see you soon.”

He nods, though she can’t see it, offering the phone back to Pepper. Pepper takes it from him with a smile, already talking to Mrs. Jefferson, nodding and humming _mhm’_ s to whatever the older woman is saying on the phone. He stares at his hands for a moment, tries to assemble his thoughts.

He gets up, ignoring the glance that Pepper gives him, and walks into the bathroom. He stands for a moment at the sink ( _weak_ and _sentiment_ and he’s done _nothing_ to deserve her kindness) and stares at his reflection for a few long moments.

He looks so tired. Dark circles beneath his eyes, too thin, hair a mess.

(He _is_ tired. _Exhausted_. But she has done him so many kindnesses, that this--to look as if he hasn’t let himself turn to nothing but sleep--this he can try to do.)

He starts the shower.

***

Pepper always has secrets. Natasha takes this as a given; Pepper is aware that there are things that Natasha cannot or will not share with her because it’s simply part of the jobs that they do. They tell each other what they can, but knowing everything about each other is more work than it’s worth.

“I have something I need to tell you,” Pepper says. She doesn’t shift in her seat, only folds her hands in her lap and waits for Natasha.

Natasha hesitates a moment.

Natasha cares for herself because if she’s not in top shape then she can’t do her job, can’t be as efficient and deadly as she needs to be. If she’s honest, she is fairly certain she can’t deal with anything else going wrong. She needs rest. She needs to stop her mind circling around the absence Loki’s left behind. Perhaps both, but if she can’t get one, she’ll settle for the other.

“I don’t want to hear it if it needs investigated,” Natasha finally says.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I’ve been keeping it from you because, well. I don’t know how you're going to react if I’m honest.” Pepper gives an abashed smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I found Loki.”

Natasha goes still. She scans Pepper’s face. She looks for the tells for the lie, looks for anything that might suggest another angle; it takes an effort of will to stop trying to analyze all of Pepper’s micro expressions to find out what it is she wants.

“Oh?” Natasha says, lifting an eyebrow and pushing down the voice that sounds suspiciously like Clint crowing _I told you so_.

“I’ve been keeping an ear to the ground.” Pepper shrugs. “Just because SHIELD said that they wouldn't take him back into custody doesn't mean they wouldn't behind the Avengers’ back. I was only making sure that never became an issue. I spoke with him and convinced him to come back with me.”

“I’m impressed.”

“He’s doing better now. He’s out of the heat, almost fully recovered physically. I thought you would like to know.” Pepper watches Natasha face. Natasha doesn’t bother pretending a smile, just gives a short nod.

“Thank you.” That, she does mean.

Pepper doesn’t say anything. Natasha takes the silence for the gift it is, tries to put together what it is she should be feeling in this moment, determine what she is feeling, decide what to do with this knowledge.

He’s okay. He’s _safe_ \--there’s no one on the planet that can keep him safe from SHIELD better than Pepper Potts. _Relief_.

He hasn’t said anything to her. _Bitter_. A little bitterness. But Pepper said that he’s physically recovered, which implies there’s more to it than just being convinced to come back to New York. Not to mention Loki’s shame, which likely still has a play in things. Worse if he was physically incapable when Pepper found him.  

She almost wants to demand to go see him. Part of her does. She smothers it. That isn’t an appropriate response. She doesn’t have time to constantly reassure his ego, particularly not when he’s not communicating with her in the first place or when he chooses to leave. Not to mention he chose to come back because Pepper likely gave him an offer it would be stupid to turn down.

She told him if he wanted to leave, she’d make sure he could. He still hasn’t come back, not to her, and so while it hurts to some extent, she can manage.

“Thank you for telling me,” is what Natasha ultimately settles on. “And thank you for watching his back.”

“I'm watching yours.” Pepper tilts her head. “Do you want to talk to him?”

Natasha shakes her head.

“Okay. I’ll let you know when he asks.”

Natasha’s eyebrow shoots up, this time surprise. Pepper just gives another of her small grins, half mischief, one of the ones that always gets Tony pointing and yelling about the menace that is Pepper Potts.

Oh, this is going to be _interesting_.

***

Seeing Mrs. Jefferson is a relief.

“Another cookie, Luke?”

He shakes his head; he barely has an appetite for anything at all. Can still barely look at her.

(He _is_ glad she is here, guilty and selfish, but he is not alone. He has missed her and her chatter)

“You know, my husband used to take off all the time.” Mrs. Jefferson helps herself to the cookie she offered him moments before. Loki wonders if he should say something ( _surely_ , she paused), but he has no idea what to say. She gives him a sweet smile, reaching for her cup of tea.

“Why?” he finally settles on. There’s no… _curiosity_ (truly) but it is an easy question, which means he will not have to speak at all.

(Why did he ask her to come, why did he let her talk her way into it, _why_ —)

“Stress mostly. He’d get these ideas in his head, they would eat away at him, and then next thing you know he’d be heading out of town. It cleared his head.”

“And this didn’t bother you?” Loki asks, confused.

(He can see what she’s doing, what she _always_ does when she brings up her husband with him. He has no idea if her husband is real or just a fiction, a carefully concocted tool, though he _wants_ to believe her.)

“Oh, sometimes. Usually when he’d just take off without so much as a note. He always came back the same day, though, so it wasn’t ever too much trouble. He just needed the space, really.”

( _Worst_ is that it works; already he’s looking at her again, engaged in whatever nonsense she decides to say.)(Starved for it)

“It was not… space,” Loki says. “That I needed.”

Mrs. Jefferson nods, as if it still makes perfect sense to her. He finds himself frowning, trying to temper it from the scowl it wishes to become.

“It was…” he trails off. How does he tell her—

“Whatever the reason, it’s fine dear.” She blinks at him over her cup of tea. “You needed to get away, so we got you away. Though I _am_ very glad that I get to see you again, I did miss your company.”

He swallows (it is _not_ choked at all-- _sentiment_ ).

“I think that’s it good you got away when you did. You were so, well, pardon my frankness, but you were so _miserable._  I was worried about you. Did something happen between you and your Nat?”

He doesn’t want to think of that. Doesn’t want to think of the _shame_ that bubbles in his chest, the _embarrassment_ at how he responded to her when she treated his own lack of desire for sex as worthwhile, as _not broken_.

“Dear, if you don’t mind me asking… why did you want to leave?”

He blinks at her. Is it not _obvious_? After all he did…

“Now, I’m not saying that you have to tell me, don’t you think that for a moment, but you didn’t mention before. You seemed awful distraught, so of course I didn’t want to ask, it seemed very important to you.” She offers him a smile, a gentle pat on one hand. He thinks to pull away--doesn’t.

He left because of… Not Natasha, he could not blame this on her (this was _never_ her fault). Not SHIELD--he barely remembers what drove him to left, but he does not remember thoughts of them predominating.

“Oh, nevermind—”

“I do not remember,” he finally says ( _better_ than to admit he finds himself unworthy)(that he will always be so, always be so undeserving). The words loosen something in his chest, his head, makes the room feel a little clearer. He can _guess_ what made him feel so unworthy, but the shame alone of hurting Natasha--he does not deserve her, but he cannot remember _why_ it was so overwhelming as to drive him out.

He shakes his head, looks at Mrs. Jefferson and gestures with his hands, palms up, helpless.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, well. Best not to dwell on it then. I’m sure it was very important at the time.” She reaches over, gently squeezing one of his hands. “I’m sure your Nat will understand if you get in touch and talk to her.”

“I am not so sure she would even want to see me again,” Loki admits.

“Won’t know unless you give it a go. Why don’t you write her a note, that’s an idea. Worst she can do is say no if you’re careful about how you ask her.”

“True.” Loki considers Mrs. Jefferson, her smile and the twinkle in her eye and the kindness and joy written in her skin. “Thank you.”

He’s still exhausted, but he can _think_. Can _recognize_ that his decision to leave was poorly thought out--that for all he knew to take into account the increasing heat of spring into summer, he didn’t plan properly.

That maybe-- _maybe_ …

( _deserving_ or _not_ isn’t what matters)

He can’t remember why exactly Natasha’s answer and his own ineptness meant that he could not stay. Not because he does not try--oh no, he tries, and sorts--but it’s lost, whatever it was.

_Perhaps…_

“Now you let me know when I can visit again, I know you’re trying to stay out of sight.”

“Of course,” Loki says, pulling himself out of his thoughts. “As soon as I’m able.”

“There’s a lad. You’re such a sweet young man.” She pats his hand again. “Now are you _sure_ you don’t want one of these cookies? One or two won’t hurt you, Natasha was very thorough about mentioning after that last incident.”

“I suppose just one would be alright,” he says. They do look rather delicious, and he hasn’t allowed himself peanut butter in quite some time.

***

Natasha sees Pepper when she’s on her way out of the building. Pepper smiles at her, they exchange hellos, and then Pepper trips and bumps into Natasha. Natasha blinks, too trained to ever fully display shock, then feels Pepper press a slip of paper in her hand.

“It’s these new shoes,” Pepper says. “No traction.”

“You should change them. You’ll break an ankle, Tony will get more unbearable, and then where will we be? You’re the only one who keeps him in line.”

“Hey, I take offense to that,” Tony says--of course. He saw Pepper slip. Little else gets his attention so quickly.

Natasha waits until she’s left and is in the privacy of her own space to look at just what it is Pepper felt the need to slip her.

It’s a note. She recognizes the handwriting immediately--sharp and angular, unfamiliar with the rounded curves native to the modern Latin alphabet.

_Natasha-_  
 _I would like a chance to speak with you. I understand if you would rather not._  
 _-Loki_

There’s a post-it at the bottom in Pepper’s neat handwriting:

_Just a matter of time._

Natasha considers their lunch, Pepper’s certainty. Natasha smiles.

She rubs her thumb along Loki’s note for a while, debating what it is she’d like to do. Does she want to speak with him?

 _Yes_. Of course she does.

But what is she walking into? She doesn’t have any idea--which has always been Loki’s appeal.

Natasha picks up her phone and calls Pepper.

“How’s Thursday?” she asks.

***

Loki’s jittery when Natasha first sees him. He was clearly pacing before she and Pepper arrived, stopping in the middle of the room when they walk in. His eyes focus on her immediately; Natasha gets a good look at him before anyone says anything.

“I’ve got some work to do, if you don’t mind,” Pepper says. “I’ll just be in the spare room if you need me.”

Pepper flashes her a quick smile before she goes. Natasha returns it, then looks at Loki.

Loki crosses his arms, shoulders rounding in, but he doesn’t look away. He looks worse for wear, skin purpled in places and healing in patches, dark circles under his eyes like he either hasn’t been sleeping--or has been too much. He’s thinner, hair loosely pulled away from his face. Natasha matches his pose--mostly. She doesn’t hunch but instead broadens her stance.

She isn’t going to coddle him or leap into his arms. He wanted to talk; she wants to know what he has to say.

“I am sorry,” Loki says first. He shifts his weight, glancing down before forcing his gaze back up to her. “Truly. For what I said and for leaving. I…” He stops, glancing around as if to make sure they really are alone.

“You?” Natasha prompts.

“I don’t remember why I needed to leave,” he admits quietly, the blue of his face deepening to a flush. “I was upset. Confused. It seemed… I did not think that—” He shakes his head. “I am sorry.”

Natasha tries not to let her shock that Loki’s managed to _verbally_ apologize show on her face. But then, is it really such a surprise? She knows that he cares--probably more than he’s ever going to admit aloud. This isn’t the first time he’s told her something she’s sure he’d die before admitting to anyone else.

“Sit down,” Natasha says when he just keeps standing there awkwardly. She sighs, sitting down next to him. He watches her out of the corner of his eyes, hands fidgeting, and she takes one of his in hers. “Look at me. Please.”

He does, eventually, but he’s tensed, ready to bolt. Apologies don’t come naturally to him, let alone sincere ones.

“I won’t keep doing this.” Loki starts to nod, but Natasha cuts him off before he can relax. “I mean it. I don’t have the time or the patience. I get that me being aromantic threw you off, and apology accepted on that front. But if we’re going to make this work, I need you to understand right now that this can’t keep happening. You can’t run off every time you get overwhelmed or whatever happened in your head. You can’t lash out every time that you’re upset. I’m not going to put up with it.”

“I… I understand.”

Natasha squeezes his hand before he can start to pull away, reaching up with her other to brush a stray strand of hair out of his face.

“Talk to me. Okay? Even if it’s just to tell me that you need space or that you’re upset. I’ll give you the space, I’ll give you whatever I can, but I can’t help if I don’t know. And I promise I'll do the same for you.”

Loki nods again, gaze focused firmly on his own hands. Natasha waits--because this she _does_ have patience for. She _does_ want to try to make things work with Loki, try to find a way to satisfy them _both_ , and she’ll make the time she needs to do that. She only wishes that she’d started it off right the first time and not let him get wrong impression with _interesting_  against _fascinating_.

“You do want to… do this, then?” Loki asks finally, slowly. “Even though…”

“It was shitty of me to rely on semantics. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to think I meant the exact same as you and should have cleared that up sooner,” Natasha admits. “But yes. I do want to try things with you still.”

“In a way that works for us both.” Loki’s watching her fully now, red eyes intent.

“Exactly. I’m not sure what that’s going to entail, but I want to give it a shot.” She smiles at him, reaching up to rub a thumb along his cheekbone. “I do care about you. You're interesting.”

“I—” Loki breaks his gaze, eyes flicking down. “I know,” he says quietly. “I will try. To tell you more.”

“I’ll let you know when I can’t tell you things. And I’ll try not to say what it is you want to hear without clarifying what I mean.” Natasha lowers head a little, looking for Loki’s eyes. “Hey, look at me.” She gives a soft and silly smile when he does, getting a slight quirk of his lips for the effort. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. Us, SHIELD, what we’re doing next.”

He gives a short and sharp nod.

“I know. I just… I missed you.” Loki grimaces as he says it. Natasha laughs, tries to contain it at the wet cat look of offended that crosses his face and finds herself laughing harder; only Loki would find missing someone so distasteful.

“Come here,” Natasha says, tugging him from where he’s sitting. He falls a little awkwardly into her, but they quickly get sorted out on the couch. She undoes the loose ponytail and starts to run her fingers through his hair, planting a kiss on his temple. He’s quick to wrap his arms around her, burying his face against her neck. She notes how his skin is still a little warmer than it should be, determines to make sure he doesn’t go out in the sun until its back to normal.

They stay like that for a while, Loki slowly relaxing more and more into her until he’s dozing. At some point Pepper stops by to check on her--Natasha doesn’t make the mistake in thinking Pepper is checking on them--but she leaves again quietly and Loki doesn’t even stir.

 _This_ … this is what she missed. This is what she wants to keep.

She kisses Loki on the head, listens to his breathing as he dozes, and hums.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No promises on when chapter 3 will go up. (This is part of why I'm avoiding cliff hanger endings)
> 
> That said, if you notice some mentions (and I can pull it off), I will continue the trend of introducing more people to what's going on. Fingers crossed~~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *laugh cries*
> 
> We're _finally here_.

“So Thor’s back.”

Loki freezes for a moment--both literally and figuratively. He goes so still that Natasha’s worried she broke him, ice crawling up his bare hands and along the surface of the table.

“I see,” Loki says coolly, leaning back from the table and casually brushing the ice off his skin and the tabletop. Then he forces a smile--a smile in the sense of a predator, Natasha reflects, all teeth and threat. “How _is_ my dear brother?”

Natasha shrugs. Thor's subdued underneath his usual golden cheer--Natasha’s guess is Asgard politics combined with not being allowed to know where Loki is or whether Loki is even alright.

“He’s keeping a good appearance,” is what Natasha settles on. “I more wanted to let you know; he’ll be keeping an eye out for anyone who fits your description in public. Let’s just hope Stark was joking about telling him to put up ‘lost brother’ posters.”

Loki looks like he’s just swallowed a lemon, breath picking up infinitesimally.

“Mostly, I bring it up so we can figure out how and when you want to deal with the team.” Natasha can’t say she’s _minded_ the past two weeks since Loki’s return again; it’s comforting to know he’s avoiding the worst of the New York summer, just as much as she enjoys getting to see him and his texts again. It’s been two drama-free weeks.

It’s not that she’s in a hurry to ruin that streak, but nearly _anything_ would be better than how the team first found out about Loki.

“Ah. Yes.” Loki frowns, relaxing again.

Sometimes, Natasha wants to laugh at how transparent he can be. At least he waited to find out the reason she told him about Thor instead of leap to assumptions. It’s progress--even if it’s small.

“I suppose sooner rather than later would be for the best,” Loki finally says, meeting her eyes again. “It’s not as if they are not aware that I’m off somewhere, and I’m sure Stark has at least figured out that _someone_ has the tech he designed specifically for the frost giant again, considering.”

“True.”

“Though there is the question of your Barton?”

Natasha shakes her head.

“So long as you don’t go out of your way to antagonize him, he’s already told me he’ll deal if you showed back up.” Natasha eyes Loki. “He knows you rather well, all things considered.”

“Some things go both ways,” Loki says, utterly neutral. Natasha can recognize when no amount of prying will get Loki to talk about something; so far, everything prior to Earth in more than the most simplistic terms is one of those subjects. And she’s not going to ask Clint; he’s still getting past and processing everything that happened.

She’ll just have to wait.

“Do you have to call him _my_ Barton every time?” she asks curiously instead, to give herself some time to try and think of the best way to reintroduce Loki to the team.

“You’re the one with the hand wave of a relationship with him,” Loki points out. “It only makes it easier to remember to at least sketch the edges of it.”

“Preempting your own jealousy?”

“Is it truly so difficult to believe me?” He frowns in annoyance. Natasha laughs, shaking her head and reaching over to touch one of his hands. They’re still shockingly cold from the ice reaction earlier--he’s hiding his distress better than she realized. She doesn’t comment on it, just rubs her thumb along the side of his hand.

“No,” she says. “Just surprising.”

Loki huffs, but he smiles at her, skin beginning to warm at her touch. He twists his hand so their fingers tangle together.

It _is_ surprising. Natasha had sat down and tried to explain her relationship with Clint--harder than it should be, because there aren’t really words in any language that she knows for what they are to each other. It’s a tangled mess--not really a romantic relationship, but also not platonic. She’d ended up making the kind of wiggly hand gesture that Clint uses to describe it sometimes; Loki’s eyes had lit up at the gesture, understanding dawning as he said a word that sounded more like choking than anything coherent.

Apparently relationships on Asgard get… _complex_. She supposes that makes sense, when a person gets stuck with the same group of people for a couple thousand years. How utterly _relaxed_ Loki is about having a romantic relationship with her while she also has her… choking noise thing with Clint is is what’s hard to wrap her head around. Loki’s always struck her as the jealous type, if only because of what she’s seen of his desperate need for his attention--it’s possible, however, that she’s misread just what the root cause of that is.

For now, she can’t really do anything but take him at his word that it doesn’t bother him; after all, as he pointed out himself, the relationship he wants with her is romantic and the one she has with Clint is something rather different--what’s there to be jealous of?

“Do you have any ideas how you want to do the team meeting?” Natasha finally asks, returning back to the more immediate concern.

“I will think of something,” Loki says, shrugging. “Perhaps whatever you think best--I’m as like to upset them as play nice.” He grins at her, eyes glimmering.

Natasha laughs, shaking her head.

“Do you want Thor there, for that first meeting?”

Loki’s grip on her hand tightens a moment, skin going cold once more--but it doesn’t freeze and his breathing manages to stay stable.

“Think about it,” Natasha offers. “I won’t start planning until I know.”

He nods.

“I will let you know.”

***

_Thor._

Of course. Loki should have _known_ \--should have _recognized_ that Thor would come back to Earth ( _what is he going to do_ ).

Natasha has long since left and day is ending--and isn’t this _just like Thor_ , that Thor’s mere _presence_ (not even _near_ him) does this to him, that _Thor_ bends the universe to fit his whims and what will he _do_ , what is he going to do, he cannot hide forever.

(Thor will want to find him.)

(Thor will see him—

Loki cuts the thought off, stops pacing in the middle of the living room. He forces himself to breathe. He tries to uncurl his hands, winces at the ice that’s crept along his skin unnoticed. His heart is still pounding, but he breathes. He examines his hands, turns them over to look at the lines that begin there and twine their way up his forearms.

There is _nothing_ wrong with him. This is who Loki is.

( _“When I’m king, I’ll hunt the monsters down and slay them all.”_ )

He closes his eyes, tries to remember to breathe, but his throat feels too tight (Jotunheim and Thor’s laughter ( _“Run home, Princess”_ ) and Thor’s excuse to—) and he sits down abruptly in the floor, curling in on himself, one hand gripping his shin tightly.

_What is he going to do?_

(He wants to run, to flee (he cannot, he cannot, he promised Natasha), wants to bury himself so deeply that he doesn’t ever risk—)

He grips his shin tighter and ignores the ice slowly building up, shoulders shaking. He rests his forehead against his knees and rocks slightly

( _“Brother,” and Thor’s hand on the back of his neck_ )

and chokes, not able to breathe at all.

He needs to—

He fumbles for the phone on the coffee table, sends it skittering onto the floor. He pauses, draws a breath. He focuses only on picking up the phone, pretends there’s nothing else that matters ( _Thor Thor Thor_ ), nothing else that _matters_ ( _what if_ Thor sees him)( _“slay them—”_ ) and picks the phone up as calmly as he can manage.

His hands very nearly don’t shake when he scrolls through his contacts. The phone rings and rings, he just needs to stay put (run, _he needs to run_ , he _can’t_ let—

There’s no answer. He presses his head to his knees again, grabbing his shin again tightly.

Thor will not find him here. No one will.

He has time.

(But _what if_ —)

***

Loki calls once--the only call Natasha misses, the same day she told him about Thor, of course--but Loki insisted she’d only forgotten her coat when she calls back later.

Otherwise, he’s quiet. He doesn’t text much over the next few days, and when he does he doesn’t mention when or how he wants to be reintroduced to the team. She doesn’t let herself worry about it. He knows he needs to tell her if he needs anything from her, and she’s going to trust him to do so. That was the deal.

Instead, she keeps an eye on Thor and starts to sort out what would be the best way to bring Loki into the fold.

Thor is… he’s very good at pretending to be well, actually. It shouldn’t surprise her as much as it does, but then it’s easy to forget that he’s royalty--thus likely used to keeping up appearances. If Natasha wasn’t looking, she’d probably assume that he was fine.

But his smile drops usually a few moments after he thinks no one is looking, and there’s a certain _lack_ to his usual golden glow. His smile never gets quite as wide, though he’s clearly willing to joke with the team, cheerfully putting up with both Stark and Clint’s antics.

“How are things back home?” Natasha asks him.

“As well as they may be.”

Natasha nods. It’s not an outright lie--he didn’t outright say that he’s not happy in Asgard. People (Stark) tend to forget that Thor’s _smart_ , and good with people.

“And how are you?”

Thor smiles, a little sad at the edges.

“It is good to be among friends once more.”

Natasha nods. She won’t pry--but it’s not hard to guess where his thoughts lie. She just hopes he doesn’t have any particular Asgardian ways to track Loki down; nothing about Loki’s reaction to the news Thor is back suggested he can deal with Thor right now.

“That’s good to hear. You want to get Clint and Steve and have a sparring contest? You and me against them?”

“Thank you, Natasha.” His smile broadens a bit. “But I would rather not. I think I shall retire for the day.”

Natasha only can thank her training that she doesn’t show how shocked she is--Thor _never_ turns down a chance to brawl. While she’s still processing it, her phone vibrates against her hip.  A quick glance reveals that it’s Loki--he wants her to stop by.

That, she can do. Thor’s going to take more thought.

 _Thirty minutes_ she texts back. Hopefully that’s quick enough. With one more glance after Thor, she pockets her phone again and heads for the elevator.

***

Loki doesn’t even bother to find out who it is when Natasha buzzes his apartment, just rings her in. She frowns a little as she gets in the elevator--ever since he’s gotten back he’s taken particular care in verifying whose visiting.

He also doesn’t answer the door when she gets to his floor. She knocks anyway, then when he doesn’t answer, pulls her copy of the key out and lets herself in.

“Loki?” she calls as she steps inside, closing and locking the door behind her. He’s not in the living area, but then considering the giant floor to ceilings windows, she isn’t surprised--he tends to avoid looking that direction and is far more fond of the kitchen and his bedroom, both of which lack windows at all. She isn’t sure if that’s a particularly Jotun thing or a Loki thing, but the thought that Loki of all people is scared of heights is a little amusing.

He isn’t in the kitchen either, and at first glance it doesn’t look like he’s in his room. At least not until she notices the bathroom door is cracked and a little light spilling out.

“Loki?” she repeats, making her way through his room to the bathroom. His breath sounds a little rough, uneven--she can’t tell if it’s because he’s trying to breathe quietly and failing or if there’s something _wrong_. “It’s Natasha.”

He doesn’t answer.

He had to have just rang her in and then gone straight here. She pauses a second, centers herself, then nudges the door open.

Loki is sitting in the floor, back to the wall. His legs are drawn up and head pressed to his knees, arms around his legs and one hand gripping his shin tight enough his knuckles very nearly look white.

He is also dressed and under a blanket.

“Loki, what’s wrong?” Natasha asks, dropping to a crouch next to him. She doesn’t touch him, not right away--his breath has hitched and she’s fairly certain that he’s holding it; touching him might potentially make things worse.

It’s not that Loki doesn’t dress usually, it’s that he doesn’t usually go for _long sleeves_. He likes to keep his skin exposed, and for the past few months shirts have been _optional_ \--and more often than not, he’d been choosing to go without. Add in the blanket, the boots, how the hand not gripping his shin has gripped the edge of his sleeve so that his skin is barely visible…

“Loki,” she repeats, firm. “Talk to me.”

There’s a slight shake of his head, another unsteady breath. She keeps her hands loose and arms resting on her knees and listens--it’s too quick, shallow. His phone isn’t too far away; she marvels a moment that he managed to send her the text at all.

“I need to know what I can do to help.” Natasha eases closer, and reaches out to get him to look up so she can rest her hands on each side of his face. “Look at me. Up. Look.” She doesn’t leave room for a choice--keeps her voice stable and sure even as she tries to sort out what triggered this, what she can risk without setting off his temper, what to _do_. Loki’s never reached out to her before while panicking.

He does ease up, eyes lowered and avoiding hers. His skin is icy, but there’s no ice. She frowns, takes in the dip in his brow--it’s a conscious effort on his part. He’s trembling from the stress of it. There’s a deeper, nearly sick blue beneath his eyes, a flush across his cheekbones, and his breath is still short and choppy and too shallow. 

“Close your eyes,” she says. “Close. Them.” She moves her thumbs up, brushes them along the outer part of his brow bone, and watches his eyes shut. Tension drains, then his shoulders tighten again. Natasha moves his face, lifts his chin, examines the rest of his face and notices the flush getting deeper, darker, spreading down his face.

 _Shame_. Ah. She should have realized sooner--it’s been so long since he’d had anywhere this extreme a reaction to his being Jotun, though.

“Breath in,” she snaps. “Hold.” It’s more of a gasp than an actual breath, but Natasha doesn’t care. She rubs her thumbs along his cheekbones, presses her forehead against his so he can feel her warmth. “Out. And hold.”

She keeps repeating, counting off the seconds in her head for each, and moves a hand back, to cup his neck--his breath almost immediately breaks the rhythm she’s given him and she slides her hand up into his hair and grips a fistful, twisting. Not to hurt; to draw his attention away from the inadvertent trigger.

His breath eases. Her lips quirk, a little, satisfied.

“Good,” she hums in the scant space between them. “Keep breathing.”

She runs her other hand along his face, reaches up to push the blanket off, twisting his hair again when he tries to flinch, stops him from pulling away and keeps his forehead resting against hers.

“ _Breathe_ ,” she says. “That’s it. In, hold, out, hold. Steady. Good. Don’t stop.”

When he listens, she relaxes her grip and runs her nails lightly against his scalp. She runs a hand down to his shoulder, along his arm--keeps the pressure firm and sure, gives him sensation to distract from _thought_.

“That’s it. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“Thor,” Loki whispers with a shudder. Natasha grips his hair again and he starts to breathe. She leaves the quiet alone, just keeps touching him, pushing his shirt sleeve up to trace over his forearm.

“No one followed me,” she says, certain. A little more tension drains away. “I won’t let him hurt you. You don’t have to see him, he doesn’t have to be involved when you get reintroduced to the team.”

“Thor,” Loki repeats with a slight shake of his head. He sounds so _helpless_. Natasha tightens her grip in his hair, twists sharply; Loki gasps, then starts to breathe again, weight pressing more heavily against her.

“Look at me,” Natasha says, watching his closed eyes.

He opens his eyes, red and miserable, meets hers then immediately tries to dart away.

“ _Look at me_ ,” Natasha snaps.

His eyes meet hers once more.

“I’ve got you. And I will not let Thor do anything to you. He won’t take you anywhere. He will not hurt you. I won’t let him.” Natasha pauses, considers how Thor is the golden son and Loki the second, the adopted monster in his own mind, how quickly Thor makes friends and how few Loki has. “He is not immovable. I am not going anywhere. I am here for you. Not him. _You_. Always.”

Loki swallows, a low, animal whine in his throat, shaking.

“Breathe,” Natasha reminds gently. “You’re my favourite, not him. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. And if he says one word about you, I’ll sock him one.”

Loki laughs. It’s wet, choked, but it’s laughter, has his shoulders shaking for a reason other than panic, and Natasha reveals in the satisfaction that gives her. She smiles at him gently.

“There you go.”

“You will try,” Loki says, closing his eyes and moving so his face is pressed against her collarbone. Natasha adjusts, shifts so she’s sitting in the floor and can wrap her arms around him, keeping one hand in his hair and the other stroking along his lower back.

“I’ll win,” Natasha says; she smiles as she does, leaves it warm, but she makes it sound fact, gives him the foundation that he needs.

He chuckles again, relaxing. Natasha feels how his skin is starting to ease away from ice to his usual cool to the touch and presses a kiss to his temple.

***

“Thank you,” Loki murmurs when he finally leans back. He looks up at her, still drained, dark and ill-looking circles beneath his eyes.

“Thank you for letting me know.” Natasha studies him for a few moments. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“I want to meet them soon. I do not want any to know where I live. I will go there if they need to confirm my existence,” Loki says instead.

“Loki.”

“I do not wish to discuss it,” Loki says tightly.

Natasha sighs.

“And Thor? How do you want to handle that?”

“I want him there.” Loki’s jaw tightens, meeting her gaze head on. “I will not—” He takes a breath, holding his hands out, looking down at the blue skin and paler lines. “This is who I am.”

Natasha puts a hand over one of his, lacing her fingers with his.

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

She nods.

“I’ll get it set up.” She studies him, but he only flashes her a tight smile.

“Thank you,” he repeats.

***

Natasha leaves.

Loki stays seated, listens to the lock clunk into place. Alone again.

He sighs, putting his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes.

(Best to get it done with. _Quick_.)

Natasha is certain. Natasha is what matters.

( _Thor_ —)

He cuts the thought off, pushes himself to his feet and heads into the bedroom.

He is Loki. He is Jotun, and he is (not fine, _monster_ )( _slay them_ —) _Loki_.

He does not need Thor to approve of him.

(There is nothing to fear, nothing nothing _nothing_.)

***

“I need a neutral space for a meeting that may go sour,” Natasha says.

Pepper sighs.

“Already?”

“Yeah. Thor has his feathers in a ruffle.” Natasha frowns. “He was having a panic attack when I got there.”

“And of _course_ he wants Thor there.”

Natasha grins; Pepper sounds as unsurprised as she feels, and just as unimpressed.

“What is with men wanting to do everything the hard way?” Pepper asks.

“No idea.”

“I’ll let you know,” Pepper says. “Give me a day.”

“Thanks, Pepper.”

“You owe me lunch.”

***

Natasha waits until Steve is in a part of the tower where there isn’t surveillance to bring up Loki.

“He’s wants to meet the team. He’s okay with visiting us, if we want to keep an eye on him, but he wants his home to be private.”

Steve looks rather unimpressed with her.

“How long has he been back?”

“I’m not sure,” Natasha says. “I didn’t even know he was back until a few days ago.”

Steve shakes his head, looking down at the waffle maker like it might speed up if he just wills it enough. Or maybe to try and infuse the waffles with his disappointment; Natasha isn’t sure.

“Pepper already has a neutral space. And we don’t have to.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Steve says dryly. “ _We_.” He sighs. “You’ve been planning this with him, haven’t you?”

“I’m looking out for his mental health. I also think that we could benefit from him being willing to work with us. He’s smart, and he’s changed.” Natasha hesitates. “Look, I get why that’s hard to believe. I do. But at least this time, nothing about what you want and what he wants really conflict. Sure, maybe you want him under more surveillance than he’s willing to be under, but you also don’t want him to harm anyone--and he doesn’t want to either.” Natasha pauses to take a breath, gauging Steve’s reaction--his stance is still relaxed, a slight frown, the little dip between his eyebrows that gives away his focus every time. “I’m not picking the team over Loki or Loki over the team. I’m just trying to find a place for you to meet in the middle so you both can see that.”

Steve shakes his head.

“Okay. I’m going to regret this, but okay. Let’s do your meeting.” He pauses, gives her another look. “This is because Thor showed back up, isn’t it?”

“We were going to find a way to reintroduce him anyway. Didn’t want another disaster.” Natasha meets Steve’s eyes, hesitates.

Steve’s a friend. They’re a team, even if it’s felt stressed lately.

“I’m a little concerned about Thor being there, to be honest. Loki’s insisting, but he still hasn’t convinced me it’s the best idea,” she admits.

“Do you think things might go sour?”

Natasha shrugs.

“I don’t know, which is why I’m telling you.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Steve sighs. “You’ve got to stop springing this stuff on me while I’m alone. I just wanted to make some waffles. Why do you all do this? Why do you all think that catching me when I’m hungry will make me easier to bring around?”

“Because it is.” Natasha grins. Steve shakes his head.

***

“You were right,” Natasha tells Barton as they’re walking back from the training room.

“I’m always right. Wait. About what?”

“Loki.”

“Told you.” He scowls.

“He wants to meet the team.”

“And you told him about our…” Clint waves his hand around.

“He took it well so far as I can tell. Even had some weird Asgardian word for it.” They both go quiet, Natasha letting him digest that tidbit of information. “We’re doing a team meeting with him in two days.”

Clint looks unimpressed, but then he usually does. Natasha certainly can’t say she blames him.

“You don’t have to be there,” Natasha adds. “And it won’t make you weak if you aren’t.”

“We’ll see.” Clint runs a hand through his hair. “We’ll see. Damn it. Why can’t I ever be right about good things?”

***

“Tomorrow,” Natasha says.

They’re laying in bed, her fingers running through Loki’s hair. The sensation is distracting, for which he is grateful, and in the dark he knows she can’t see how his eyes keep darting behind closed lids, chasing thoughts that run circles through his head.

“Tomorrow,” he repeats after her, voice quiet and careful.

(It’s so much easier to handle the word with all the care and delicacy it warrants in the dark.)

( _Tomorrow_. Twelves hours until he sees Thor.)

(until _Thor_ sees _him_ )

He rolls over, twisting away from her, suddenly too hot and too shaken.

“Are you sure about this?” Natasha asks. Her voice is so neutral. “You know you don’t have to.”

“Best to get it done with,” he tells her.

( _Thor will_ —)(he can run, he can still run, what use is there—)

Her hand touches his back, runs down his spine; he startles.

“Breathe,” she murmurs. Her hand keeps running up and down his spine.

Loki focuses on that, on the sensation.

“If you’re certain.”

“As I can be.” He stares at the opposite wall, runs a thumb along the lines on his hands. He swallows.  “It is only Thor.”

Natasha chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of his spine, but she does not contradict him.

( _Oh_ how he loves her, still and yet and _more_.)

“You’ll be fine,” she says instead.

He wishes he could believe. That he will be fine. That it is _only_ Thor. That there is no reason to fret.

(His skin is _too_ blue, eyes _too_ red, he is too much _not_ Aesir and Thor is—)

( _what is Loki without Thor?_ )

“I hate him,” Loki says aloud, tasting the words, unspoken since he last saw Thor. “I _hate_ him.” His voice shakes.

(It is dark. She cannot see, though she can hear. It is dark and for now, he is yet safe. It is Natasha. He can tell her this.)

She does not say anything. He reminds himself to breathe, follows the rhythm of her hand rubbing along his spine, in as she moves her hand up, out as it slides back down. Recomposes. He _hates_ Thor. He hates him. He doesn’t need his approval, does not _need_ him, does not _care_ —

“It’s okay,” Natasha says, breaking his thoughts. “To hate what he does to you. To be worried about what will happen.” She pauses and he tries to remember to breathe. “You don’t have to lie to me, Loki. It’s okay.”

He swallows, squeezing his eyes shut and making a fist.

“What if—”

“Let’s see first,” Natasha interrupts. “Okay?”

He nods.

“Don’t forget to breathe.”

He inhales and presses back so he can feel her warmth along his back, the slide of her hand over his hip to wrap an arm around his waist. Her hair brushes against bare skin.

She doesn’t hesitate. She so rarely does.

He focuses on that. On her.

(There is Natasha.)

***

Loki looks harried right up until they walk out of the door; then the mask comes up and the only thing to give him away is the manic gleam in his eye, the nervous twitch of his fingers. Natasha examines him for a moment, then pulls him down and kisses him. She nips his bottom lip, gets him to open up, explores his mouth until he’s nearly sagging into her, hands coming up to squeeze her waist possessively.

“There we go,” she says, pulling away. The set of his shoulders is easier, more natural, his eyes a little calmer. “Ready?”

“Always,” he says, offering her his arm. She smiles and takes it.

Now just to get through the meeting.

***

Natasha had agreed with Steve before that they were going to keep Thor from sitting next to Loki. Pepper picked out the space--and couldn’t have done a better job of it, really; the table is set up so that it doesn’t feel like Loki is under attack by anyone asking him a question, the room relatively close to the ground and the blinds partially drawn. There’s coffee, tea, a tray of cookies--including peanut butter--that doesn’t particularly draw attention to itself.

Better, Natasha thinks, to have comfort food on hand, even if Loki usually tries to avoid grains since the Cookie Incident.

She’s quick to note that Clint isn’t there, Stark is sitting on Loki’s other side, and Steve’s got himself between Stark and Thor. That leaves three chairs: Loki’s, Natasha’s, and the empty one between her and Thor that was meant for Clint. Thor’s farthest away and almost directly across from Loki at the round table; it’s not ideal, but it is good for making sure that Thor doesn’t just reach across the table--he gets physical when he gets impassioned.

Natasha goes in before Loki, keeps Loki’s attention on her so that he can’t see Thor’s very first reaction.

Better safe than sorry. She’s heard too much incidentally from Thor to think he’ll be able to keep shock off his face when he first sees Loki; she only hopes that’s all he shows, and he puts the rest away. This is supposed to be about Loki, not him.

Except, well. _Thor_.

“Loki,” Thor says, standing up partially. He looks gutted, eyes sweeping over Loki’s features in all their Jotnar glory, frowning and heart bleeding on everything. Natasha shoots Steve an annoyed glance, Stark looks awkward as hell about the display, and Loki—

Loki just stops walking. His face is utterly blank, meeting Thor’s gaze. His stance widens a bit, shoulders going back and chin up, half a dare written on his face.

“Thor,” he says evenly, and his lips twitch towards cruel.

“Loki, thank you for coming,” Steve interrupts, tugging Thor. Thor glances at him, frustration evident, but he sits down and Natasha breathes an internal sigh of relief. The last thing they need is Thor trying to touch Loki right now--the way Loki’s mouth is pulled, she suspects he’d freeze his brother out of spite, nevermind he wants Thor’s approval so much he’s driven himself to at least one panic attack that Natasha knows about.

 _Idiots_ , the both of them. Natasha wishes she knew why she bothers.

“Yeah, I gotta hand it to you really. I mean, we kidnapped you while you were nearly dying of alcohol poisoning and you even want to see us again?” Stark grins, cocksure and attitude right back in place, winking at Loki over the top of his sunglasses. “I barely even want to look at people who wake me up from a hangover, let alone kidnappers.”

“One of us must be the better person,” Loki says dryly, sitting down between Stark and Natasha. He gives Thor a lazy look, another panther smile.

“We thought it might be a good idea to get everyone on the same page,” Natasha says. “Isn’t that right?”

“Oh, well yes.” Loki looks very nearly bored. _Why_ did Natasha let him convince her that having Thor here _wouldn’t_ be a bad idea?

“Natasha mentioned you didn’t want us to know where you live,” Steve says, stepping into the empty space before Thor can. Natasha watches Thor’s mouth close and the tight press of his lips. He’s starting to pull himself back together, even if his heartbreak is still clear in his eyes. “Is there anything else?”

“Oh, the usual. No one trying to follow me to find out where my home is. Not being abducted. Being left alone.” Loki glances at black fingernails; it draws Thor’s attention--of course it does, and of course Loki notices, a sharp smile on his face as he watches Thor.

He _likes_ the attention, Natasha realizes. Specifically _Thor’s_ attention, even if it’s not good.

“Abducted?” Thor says slowly, a low rumble. Loki very nearly preens.

“Why yes, didn’t you hear?” Loki chuckles. “It was quite an interesting experience. Why, I thought for certain that you would do something, but I do suppose you have better to worry about than a frost giant runt, don’t you?”

“I would never have left you if I’d known,” Thor says, leaning forward, meeting Loki’s gaze head on and utterly oblivious to the way that Loki’s trying to prod a reaction from him. Stark drops his head back against his seat, and though she can’t see it Natasha knows there was a pretty epic eye roll going on. “Loki, it does not matter what you are, you are—”

“--here to discuss how he’s going to interact with the Avengers going forward,” Natasha interrupts, drawing both Thor and Loki’s attention to her. “Which is why we invited you, Thor.”

Thor frowns, but he sits back. At her side, Loki’s stiffened; Natasha can only imagine what it was he heard when Thor said that bit about it not mattering what he is, none of it is good. His smile is gone, face blank. Thor doesn’t talk in ways that Loki gets, and Loki only ever hears the worst of everything--and yet he’s _still_ itching for Thor’s focus, even with having heard whatever terrible thing it was he heard.

She seriously needs to reconsider ever trusting anything Loki says about Thor again.

“Tony thought it might be interesting if you could help stress test some of his tech,” Steve says. “Right, Tony?”

“Yeah, that would be great. I mean, I saw what you did to that laptop that Natasha brought by—” Steve’s eyebrows go up, giving Natasha a look, but Natasha ignores it. She’ll let Stark field that one later. “--and it’s incredible. Maybe we can improve the stuff I gave you, tweak it, you know, that sort of thing.” Stark grins. Loki is blinking at Stark--floored, at least to someone who knows him. Natasha smiles, just a little.

“I threw you out of a window,” Loki says.

“Don’t remind him,” Steve groans. “That’s all he talks about.”

Stark flashes another signature smile.

“In any case, that would get you in the Tower sometimes,” Natasha points out, carefully nudging Loki’s thigh under the table. “Steve would get a lot of peace of mind from having you check in sometimes.”

“I would,” Steve admits. “At least for a while. You didn’t make a very good first impression.”

Loki still looks puzzled--Natasha has a feeling that none of his scenarios for this involved the team being this… willing to communicate, and featured Thor far more.

She’ll keep it a secret how much of this they planned beforehand.

“That is reasonable,” Loki says at last. “I am at the least amenable to the idea.”

“Amenable,” Stark says. “Do you listen to yourself talk?”

“Stark,” Thor says, a low rumble.

“Frequently,” Loki snaps, but his glare is directed at Thor.

“And you’ll have plenty of opportunity to do the same, Stark,” Natasha adds. Loki relaxes just slightly. Natasha pretends not to notice the way that Thor is considering her and Loki, how his brow has furrowed just a little.

“Great.” Steve grins, holding a hand out. “I’m glad that was so easy.”

Loki hesitates a moment, then notices Thor’s surprise at Steve’s offering his hand and gets a set to his mouth just before he reaches out to shake Steve’s hand.

Natasha sighs, resisting the urge to cover her face at Thor’s surprise, and--a first--finds Stark throwing her a sympathetic glance.

***

“That went well,” Stark says. Loki’s in the restroom, Steve is talking with Thor, and so Natasha finds herself stuck in Stark’s company and not, for once, minding overmuch.

“And suggests needing to plan out every possible interaction involving Thor in the future,” Natasha points out. Thor doesn’t look very happy where he’s talking to Steve.

“Yeah, well, you handled it. Practically your own pet frost giant.”

Natasha blinks, looking at Stark. He’s busy examining the tray of cookies, picking out ones he wants to eat and sipping at his cup of coffee.

“Man, Pepper’s a gift. This bakery _never_ does catering.”

“I called in a favour,” Natasha says, grabbing a few peanut butters for Loki.

Own pet frost giant. Now there’s a thought. She turns it over, considers. Remembers the panic attack only a few days ago, the way Loki eased into her last night. Considers that it’s been quite a while since she found anyone to actually scene with, let alone that she _wanted_ to scene with, or that she fell into that pattern naturally with.

Loki wants romance. Natasha can give him a dom’s attention; it’s not quite the same, but there would be enough overlap from his perspective that maybe, just maybe, Stark’s accidentally presented a way for her and Loki to make their relationship last long term.

“I don’t think Thor’s very happy,” Steve sighs. “And I can’t tell what he’s more upset over, to be honest--Loki or that no one told him we knew where he was.”

“Both,” Stark says. “Did you see his face when Loki walked in? Awkward.”

“Mmm.” Natasha looks at Steve, then glances around the room and notes Thor’s gone. “Where is he?”

***

Loki breathes in, leaning his head back and wiping the water off his face. He sighs, looking at himself in the mirror.

He feels… lost. Adrift. He had expected so much more _strife_ , and yet this went nearly _pleasantly_.

(But Thor, _Thor_ felt the same, as soon as Thor spoke, just like _always_.)

So how did it go so differently, if Thor was the same?

( _“It does not matter what you are—”_ )

He snorts.

(Of course it matters. It will _always_ matter. Only Thor could think that he could say it doesn’t and make it so.)

He shakes his head, recomposes, and heads out the door to go back to the conference room. Perhaps he’ll be able to slip a few of the cookies out, despite how it will make Natasha frown, he’s certain—

He runs straight into Thor.

 _Heat_ , he thinks, dazed. _Heat and heat and heat_. Gold and _golden_ and blinding and _brilliant_ , broad and immovable--it is not _Thor_ who takes a step back from the collision, but _Loki_ (just like _always_ ). Even a few steps back, he can feel Thor’s warmth near radiating off his skin (has he _truly_ never encountered an Aesir in this flesh? But no, no, he ran as soon as—)

“Loki,” Thor says, reaching out, and Loki snarls, tries to step back and instead hits the wall. His shoulders tense, but Thor just steps forward, determined and mouth set and _oh_ how Loki _despises_ him.

(that Thor always can _touch_ , that Thor _never_ notices where Loki’s boundaries are, that he _assumes_ —)

“Do not touch me,” Loki hisses, trying to slide away and out of Thor’s grasp even as Thor clasps one broad hand on his neck, heavy and _hot_

(familiar and _loved_ , all of Thor’s attention on _him_ —)

and Loki freezes, teeth grinding and half-bared.

“I am not frightened, Brother,” Thor says, eyes blue and earnest.

(Because _Thor’s_ thoughts are all that matter, _they always are_ —)

“I am not your brother,” Loki hisses, shoving Thor’s hand away and letting a touch of frost chase his touch, pushing Thor away and reorienting so that he can insure he does not run into another wall and get trapped again.

“You are, Loki, even if you are cursed for now. It doesn’t matter to me, it doesn’t matter what you are. Loki, I have missed you, and worried, and to hear—”

Loki’s mouth falls open, shocked and suddenly, blindingly _furious_.

“For _now_?” he demands, pushing back into Thor’s face, teeth bared, ice threatening to coat every inch of him. “ _For now_? What makes you think I would give this skin up once more? It is _mine_ , or did Odin not tell you the truth of my unwanted birth?” He shoves Thor, startling him into the wall this time, nearly vibrating with fury (to _think_ Thor thinks this a _curse_ , thinks this _temporary_ , that everything he feared is _true_ and Thor sees him only as he _was_ , will not see him for what he _is_ and _always has been_ , that Loki thought, _that he thought_ —) “You lot _forced_ me into the body of my birth, _stole_ my ability to shift shape and my magic both, and you have the _gall_ to call this a _curse_ , as if you can lift it!”

“Loki, stop twisting my words!” Thor scowls. “You always do this, that is not what I meant and you know—”

“Then say what you _mean_ , oh _Odinson_ , ever eager to hunt the monsters down and _slay them all_.”

(He will _kill_ him, he _will_ , this time, he is _done_ with this, with Thor’s _never_ understanding, there is nothing-nothing- _nothing_ that should hold him back, he will gut him and revel in it. Oh how he _hates_ Thor.)

(how it _hurts_ to hear such from--)

“Thor, Steve’s looking for you,” a cool voice says.

They both look. Natasha is watching, face calm as if there is nothing unusual about this situation.

“If you have a second,” she adds, an afterthought.

Loki steps away from Thor, shooting him one last venomous look, then forcing the rest of himself to at least appear calm. Thor scowls back (clearly he has not missed Loki so much), then gives Natasha a sharp nod.

And then it is only he and she. He wonders what she saw, what she will say.

(What everyone _always_ and ever does when he and Thor fight, how it is _his_ fault, how _he_ should just _listen_ , how _he_ should--.)

“Let’s go home,” she says. She smiles. “Oh, and I saved you some of these.” She offers him a napkin. He takes it, careful not to touch her skin, and unwraps the bundle. He chuckles a little--acid and bitter, too tight in his chest.

“Thank you,” he says.

“I thought you might need some. Anything else you want to do before we’re done?”

He shakes his head.

“Lead the way,” he says.

***

Natasha waits until Loki’s had time to calm down and eat before she brings up the idea that Stark so inadvertently handed her. In truth, she was planning to wait a few days to think it over more before she brought up the suggestion of dominance and submission at all, but Loki _calm_ doesn’t mean he’s any less upset.

Just sullen.

She’d rather he have another idea to turn over.

“For us,” she starts casually while he’s mid a glass of milk and she’s nursing her own cup of tea, “I was thinking.”

That gets his attention.

“Oh?” He looks cautious, almost alarmed.

“It’s nothing bad,” she says, smiling and reaching over to clasp one of his hands.

He waits anyway, eyes focused and sharp.

“The other day, when you were upset, I took control of the situation and you relaxed into it. I’ve been thinking about that, and if you want, we could make that a foundation to work from.”

“You mean like dom and sub,” Loki says, eyebrows furrowing.

Natasha blinks.

“Why do you always act as if I will not know these terms? Even if it wasn’t common on Asgard, which it is, all I have most days for entertainment is the internet,” Loki says dryly. “I do not live under a rock.”

Natasha laughs, squeezing his hand.

“Fair enough. What do you think then?”

He goes quiet, looking at his half-finished glass. He thumbs at it, spider web frost patterns running up the side for a moment before melting.

“It seems sound. There’s overlap, is there not? With what I want and what you desire.” He frowns. “Not sexual.”

“No,” Natasha confirms.

“It could work.” He looks at her again, skin tight at the edges of his eyes. “I will give it thought.”

Natasha nods.

“Do you want me to go?” she asks.

He hesitates.

“You can tell me, Loki,” she says, smiling.

“No,” he says. “But… I do not have much desire to talk.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

He nods and forces a smile.

***

“So what do you do with it exactly?” Stark asks, and this time he even pauses long enough that Loki could say something if he chose.

Stark is… _distracting_. Constantly talking and moving, and Loki would find it more annoying if not for how the man has a clear talent for his craft, a passion for it.

Loki can understand that particular type of drive all too well.

( _Could_.)

“I use it,” Loki says.

Stark snorts.

“Yeah, I _got_ that, thanks. But _how_? I mean, Natasha showed me that first laptop? How the hell did that happen? Is it because your blue?”

(Stark has so few _qualms_ about prodding that subject--it’s almost… refreshing.)

“If I lose control of my temper, I tend to freeze things.” Loki watches Stark carefully.

Stark just looks fascinated.

“Are you still stronger than humans? I mean, not to beat a dead horse--which can I say that? Is that offensive, there’s some myths with you and a horse—”

“Stark,” Loki says mildly, “you’re point?”

Stark presents him a phone. It looks rather like his current one.

“I want to stress test what I gave you.” Stark turns the screen on, revealing a lone app on the home screen. “You haven’t broken it yet, but I want to know exactly how far we can push this until it does.”

“Why?” Loki asks.

“Why not?” Stark grins. “I like blowing things up. You like blowing things up. It’s science as long as we write it down. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Loki eyes the phone, eyes the app. Flappy Bird.

“Fine,” Loki says. “Though I have little idea how this could at all help with such.”

Stark laughs and hands him the phone.

***

She keeps an eye on Loki. While it might be a touch closer to baby sitting than she particularly likes, she doesn’t like seeing her friends upset.

It’s not anything big. Just a text from Jarvis if Thor happens to be alone in the same room with Loki so that she can get there--or get someone else can if she can’t.

Thor… smothers. She doesn’t think he realizes that he does it, but it’s so obvious that he’s not aware of boundaries that he’s crossing. Even with her, Loki can be cagey about touch, but Thor just… doesn’t seem to recognize any of the signs that Loki doesn’t want to be touched, and Loki certainly never just _tells him_ he doesn’t want to be touched either. Not until Thor’s doing the touching at any rate.

And that’s just one of the ways that Thor smothers. He’s, well, bright. He’s used to being the first son, he used to being listened to and not listening. Thor has no idea how Loki manages to get the hurt he does from what Thor says, and only makes it worse because he doesn’t understand that telling Loki he’s wrong instead of _listening_ is the wrong thing to do.

Of course, it might be easier if Loki _didn’t seek Thor out_.

“Why do you do that?” she asks him, when they’re leaving the Tower together after she’s successfully gotten him away from Thor.

“He’s _insufferable_ ,” Loki says, still half snarling. One hand reaches up and rubs at his neck where Thor had put his hand--again. Thor runs a bit hotter than the average human; she wonders what that feels like to Loki now, if Thor has always felt that way or if not it’s even more intense. It likely is more intense; everything she knows of him before suggests that Loki was biologically Aesir, that this was a true shape shift.

“You look for him because he’s insufferable?” Natasha asks mildly.

Loki scowls at her, mouth pressing tight. Natasha just stops by the car, a hand in her pocket to pull her keys out and looks back up at him evenly, waiting.

“You would not understand,” he mutters, looking away first.

“Maybe.”

Loki shakes his head.

“If you want to talk to him, I can help you.”

“I can talk to my own--to Thor.” Loki’s glaring at her again, so Natasha just looks back at him, taking him as seriously as she can.

 _Brothers_.

***

“This is _infuriating_ ,” Loki snarls, flinging the phone across the room for the umpteenth time in as many days before he snaps his mouth shut and grinds his teeth together. He glares at where he’s thrown the phone, tempted to go find it and see if it’s survived, because he will not be bested by some _stupid_ app.

Dum-e has already done the work for him him, beeping as Tony pokes his head over the workbench again.

(Smart of him.)

Loki seethes in Tony’s direction, but his breath is starting to come evenly again. He clenches his hands, cracks his knuckles, and then nearly delicately takes the phone back from Dum-e.

“Thank you,” he tells the robot.

(He does not think he truly means it.)

“You know the air temperature drops around you when you get pissed off?” Tony asks, popping a blueberry into his mouth. His fingers fly over his display, data turning into a rich network of charts and readings. The human is casual about Loki’s display of temper, as if there is no risk to him (as if Loki is not a temperamental monster), brown eyes flicking momentarily from the data points to Loki then back again. “I mean, it’s a million degrees out and you basically are the lab’s AC whenever you visit. Pretty cool.”

“That was not even vaguely funny,” Loki says, moving to take a look at what Tony is seeing.

“Ah ah, phone down first.”

Loki rolls his eyes, but listens (worth it, to see what has Tony so intrigued). The phone isn’t on the surface more than a few seconds before Tony has snatched it up and cracked it open to take a look at the insides. Loki lets him, poking at the readings above.

(He dare says he… _enjoys_ Tony’s company. Obnoxious, rude, _insufferable_ as the human might be, he _is_ clever. Sometimes it even manages to shine through.)(He is not frightened of Loki. Does not blink at his skin, not in Loki’s presence. Modified all the touch interfaces to deal with the fact Loki runs too cold for many to notice his touch when he is angry, which is often because of the nature of what they are doing.)

(It shouldn’t mean anything to him, and _yet_ …)

“Well it half-made it this time,” Tony announces.

“Pressure or temperature?” Loki asks idly.

“Little of both.” Tony tilts the phone towards him; Loki looks down, sees a touch of ice that had slipped into the phone’s seam, the neat crack in the glass. “Or, you know, you throwing it did it. Either way, another one down. By the time we’re done a freaking three year old won’t be able to break one of these phones. Nintendo will be begging me to find out how I did it.” Tony flashes him a cocksure grin.

“How delightful,” Loki says dryly.

***

It doesn't take much for Natasha to determine she loves scening with Loki. Loves the exploration, loves when things go well--because there have been some things that they’ve tried in the weeks since she suggested BDSM that don’t. Blunt force that was abandoned almost as soon as Natasha connected the one time they tried it, Loki recoiling in a way that didn’t suggest his usual comfort, a twisted up fury just barely masking terror.

But when they go well, when what they’ve discussed and decided to explore works, there is a _joy_ to it that Natasha loves. There’s _always_ a fight to get him to just let go, one that reminds her so much of his viciousness and brilliance and simple survival instinct she can’t help but respect, can’t help how much joy she takes in pushing back against, because she _recognizes_ it for what it is. The slow push and tug and pull as she undoes him entirely, bit by bit, forces him to discard the parts of him that he clings to because he doesn’t know how to stop thinking about _everyone else_ ….

until it’s finally only _Loki_ , as he is at his core, eyes gentled, love and trust making him loose and languid.

So much trust. He trusts her not to hurt him in a way he does not want, trusts her not to use him, to stab him in the back, and here, in the bedroom after a scene, his breath slow and shallow as he starts to doze against her, skin beginning to bruise a little from their play today, it is so obvious that Natasha can feel it--warm and heat and a permanent glow in her chest.

With everything she’s come from, she has no way to explain how _much_ being trusted means to her.

“Should I be worried about you and Tony getting along?” Natasha asks idly, running her hand through his hair.

He shifts a little, rubbing his face into her skin. A half rub, the brush of eyelashes as his eyes partially open, the tense of curiosity that makes him heavier against her for a breath. So close--always so close after these scenes that he barely needs to speak, and she isn’t sure the words are even in reach for him.

She revels in this; _she_ did this, she brought him peace, crafted a space for him to simply _be_. This, she thinks sometimes, must be what religion is for other people.

Loki shakes his head, hums a low purr. Natasha chuckles, pressing a kiss to his head.

“What is that supposed to mean?” She smooths his hair away from his face, tilting her head to see if she can get a better look at him.

Loki shrugs, and his smile feels like joy where it presses into her skin when her chuckle turns to honest laughter. There’s another pleased hum as she briefly scratches her nails against his scalp, the flutter of his eyelashes shut against her throat.

“I should get you a collar. You’re nearly a giant cat.”

Loki freezes, muscles locking tight against her and the momentary heaviness of his curiosity returned a thousandfold as he stops breathing. His fingertips dig briefly into her, then there’s the flex in his spine as he starts to get ready to push away.

“No collar then,” Natasha says quickly, but she does not try to stop him as he sits up. He’s breathing again--unsteady, nearly as tight as the line between his brows. He doesn’t move farther away, only sits there, not quite looking at her, eyes focused on some middle distance.

Thinking.

She lets him, waits. His thoughts always go slow after a good scene--stop, she suspects, but it isn’t like she can know that for sure. It doesn’t matter; what matters is that he calms so deeply, a facet of him that she knows belongs solely to her. She will give him all the time in the world to think if it means she gets to see him this way.  

Natasha never claimed to be a good person.

“Perhaps,” Loki finally murmurs, eyes shifting up to look at her. “Perhaps.”

Natasha holds a hand out. He hesitates a moment, then eases back up against her side and half sprawls against her, bare skin on bare skin. Tension drains out of him as she trails her hands along the lines that crisscross his flesh, as she presses a kiss to his brow.

“Think about it,” she replies, and he sighs, eyes slipping closed again and the earlier peace returning.

How _easy_ he trusts her.

Natasha smiles.

***

_You’re nearly a giant cat._

( _Beast_. She meant beast.)

A _collar_. What is he to make of the suggestion? It seemed so idle, so _harmless_. Natasha did not mean ill, he knows she did not mean ill, did not mean it the way any _Aesir_ would mean it if speaking of a Jotun.

(The way _Thor_ would.)(Thor would not say such, not to him, not of him, not ev—)( _\--ven if you are cursed for now_ , isn’t that what Thor said, is that why Thor would not say such, because he has simply not recognized that Loki is Jotun and _does_ need to be collared like some beast?)

“Hey, Papa Smurf, I thought you were supposed to be breaking things?”

Loki blinks, glances down at the phone in his hand. He’d forgotten. He presses his lips tightly, glares at the phone and then Stark. This should be easy, but—

\--but it is so difficult to be angry the way he needs to be for ice, even with the usual curse that is this intolerable app that he still cannot best.

(he is so… _unsure_. Off-balance. Not furious, only confused and unhappy and mulling his way through.)

Perhaps, just _perhaps_ , he could try asking Stark. When he speaks to Mrs. Jefferson and Natasha it near always helps, and even Pepper was helpful for all he only briefly really spoke with her.  

He glances up at Stark; Stark looks bemused and slightly alarmed--certainly more alarmed than he has any time that Loki has actually been infuriated. It’s… charming. Just as Stark always is, if only ever unintentionally.

“You know, I thought before was probably just a one off, but I really didn’t expect performance issues to be a common thing with you.”

On second thought, perhaps he should not. He wrinkles his nose in slight distaste, throwing the phone at Stark’s head. It’s really more a toss, certainly not hard, and Stark catches it, giving the phone a once over.

“Despite what you seem to think, I am not always angry,” Loki comments mildly.

(Who else can he speak to about this? Certainly not Thor (who he still can’t decide if he should murder or simply avoid), and Natasha is out of the question when so much of this relates back to her. Pepper is out of the question (too much ( _shame_ ) embarrassment at how she found him)(besides, they are not friends, only two people who cross paths because of someone they both care about), and the idea of speaking to _Mrs. Jefferson_ about _this_ of all things is so mortifying that he’d almost rather talk to Thor.)

(Then there is the internet, but for all those… friends can sometimes be helpful, he is not sure that he could truly trust any who do not fully realize what is involved with this--but he does not think he could possibly reveal the details without someone realizing who he actually is.)

Stark is staring at him, half-expectant.

(It was only a suggestion. It should not _matter_ so.)

Stark looks as if he is strongly reconsidering being in contact with Loki at all.

“Suppose,” Loki says, slow at first (he should not do this), “ _suppose_ that there were something which Pepper wished to do that, _perhaps_ , struck too close to the bone.” He will not go into specifics, that is simple enough.

(Stark will be too embarrassed to speak to anyone else about this, surely, too awkward, and the startled deer look that Loki is getting at this moment only confirms it.)

Stark lets out a breath, rights his expression once more, and gives a self-deprecating laugh.

“Really, you’re asking _me_ for help with Natasha?”

“It is only a question.”

“What does she want you to do, cut your hair? Make friends with Thor?”

Loki presses his lips together tightly, his aimless uncertainty of before spurred to anger. (An idiot, to think that perhaps _Stark_ of all people might have something worthwhile to say—)(and perhaps it would be easier, if being nice to Thor was all that Natasha asked, all Natasha suggested, but _no_ , she suggested a collar, a beast, to treat him as he appears.)

“Nevermind,” he snaps. Silence descends and he turns away, wishing he had the phone so he could at least turn back to work and change the subject more successfully. Dum-e gives a mournful beep that has Loki shooting the robot a glare.

“It depends on what it was,” Stark says suddenly. “But I guess the problem is it makes you think that you’re… whatever the fuck Jotun is supposed to mean to Asgard?” Loki turns to look at Stark, shoulders itching at the awareness in brown and all too old human eyes.

“I’m like, the worst at relationships,” Stark continues, “so take this with enough salt to salinate the ocean, but if it just makes it easier to sleep at night? Gives me another way to draw a line from the person I was and who I try to be these days? I usually give it a shot, even if I think it sounds stupid. Pepper’s a smart lady. And I don’t know what Natasha’s suggested--and I don’t want to know, thanks, this is weird enough as it is--but Natasha’s probably the only other person I know smart as Pepper.” Stark looks away, shrugging.

Loki considers the human in the following silence--it is not terrible advice, for all that Stark has downplayed himself.

(But he must admit that this entire situation is indeed uncomfortable, and it is best to move on.)

Stark tosses the phone back.

“Thor ate all the peanut butter cookies we had in the kitchen. Couldn’t save you any,” Stark says.

Loki catches the phone, irritated and put out by the lack, by Thor’s thoughtlessness (as if Thor would know), and crushes the phone with one hand. It startles a laugh out of him, and then a moment laughter, Stark is laughing too.

***

“Let’s never speak of this again,” Stark says as Loki leaves.

“Speak of what?” Loki deadpans.

“Who knows,” Stark says, reaching out to pat Loki on the arm before wisely changing his mind.

***

One thing about Thor most people don’t realize: he can absolutely be silent on the approach. Natasha assumes that hunting on Asgard, or wherever Thor chooses to hunt, also means needing to know how to move silently, masking the unavoidable in the environmental noise.

Like many things about him, it’s preference that makes him the big and golden charming prince that he usually appears.

This is why she is mostly unsurprised when he not only tracks down where she’s hidden herself so she can finish some paperwork while waiting on Loki to finish working with Stark, but does so without her noticing until he’s cleared his throat and is purposefully making noise again.

Natasha just raises an eyebrow and gives him a once over. Thor very nearly looks humble, and there’s certainly a certain kicked puppy look to him, so clearly he’s got something he wants to ask.

“Do you perhaps have a moment, Lady Natasha?” Thor asks, all formality, so it must be about Loki.

“Sure,” Natasha says, leaning back in her chair and pushing the paperwork away. “I need a break anyway.”

Thor smiles and eases himself into the chair next to her at the boardroom table. He’s dressed impeccably, casual and dressy at the same time, and she takes a moment to admire the more toned down burgandy of his partially unbuttoned shirt--it’s a change from the more normal red.

“Tony introduce you to his tailor?”

“Clothing has come quite a ways,” Thor says. “It is still a bit lacking to what I am used to, but it certainly is comfortable. Stark seemed quite shocked that I knew nearly so much about clothing.”

Natasha rolls her eyes; Stark _would_ forget just what being a prince means as far as wardrobes go, even if he himself is one in all but name. It gets a chuckle out of Thor.

“We should go shopping sometime then.”

“That would be most agreeable!” Thor says, lighting up a bit, and Natasha’s smile is genuine this time. There’s something a bit soothing to how easy and upfront Thor is about how he feels; while she knows it isn’t innocence, or even naivety, it’s still refreshing. It’s like Steve’s own faith in the goodness of others, that everyone can be redeemed if they want it--the two are different, of course, but Natasha still finds herself overly fond of the trait.

Maybe she should tell him to talk to Steve about Loki.

“What can I help you with?” Natasha says. “No offense, but I don’t think you hunted me down to talk clothes.”

Thor laughs, not in the least bit ashamed that Natasha knows he found her for a reason.

“Indeed, I did not. It is about my brother, though I doubt that surprises you either. You and he seem quite close?”

“You could say that,” Natasha says, keeping her tone neutral. Thor, however, only nods, not even a flicker of jealous or, well, anything dark--either he’s hiding it well or he really doesn’t mind.

Of course, considering it’s Thor, it’s entirely possible that for all he shoves his foot in his mouth around Loki, he is genuinely happy his brother has developed relationships in their time apart.

“Indeed.” Thor pauses, concentration flickering across his features. “Perhaps this will sound comical, as Loki and I did grow up together, were close for centuries, but pretty words have never been my forte, so I shall ask you this simply: how do you do it? It seems a miracle, with how often my brother and I were at odds since my banishment to New Mexico, that you could be so close--he has pushed me away at every turn such that I feared that no one would ever reach him.”

Natasha blinks. There are many things she would expect of Thor, many many things, but none of them involve him humbly asking her how the hell to _not piss Loki off_.

Though, considering that it’s been a solid three weeks of Loki nearly taking his nose off every time Thor tries to talk to him and Natasha carefully redirecting things, maybe it’s only been a matter of time.

“Of course, if you would—”

“Listen to what he says,” Natasha interrupts. It’s the most obvious thing she can think of. She holds a hand up before he can say anything, can see the objection already on his lips. He frowns, but settles back in his chair.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s got a chance after all.

“You’ve got to listen to him. You two think in entirely different ways, so you’ve got to listen to what he’s saying so you know what he isn’t saying. You know he doesn’t just come out and say what’s bothering him.” Natasha snorts. “He’s starting to learn, but he’s got a ways to go.”

Thor nods. Natasha considers him, can see him thinking--Thor does not hide himself in anyway, and his brightness is a force that swallows the room.

It’s no wonder Loki often attacks him--Loki’s drawn to him as much as anyone, but it smothers him in the same breath. Natasha’s seen it in action a few times now, knew it existed, but alone with Thor it’s easier to be smothered herself.

“I know words aren’t your strong suit, but you’ve got to be more careful with them. Loki’s hearing things that you don’t mean--but that doesn’t mean what he hears is any less true for him. Don’t shut him down when he says that you’re saying something you didn’t--listen to him. He wants the validation; the biggest thing I do is listen to him and don’t tell him he’s wrong unless he’s actually wrong. And then you’ve got to show him that he’s wrong. Be subtle about it.”

Another nod, Thor’s frown growing a little deeper. This is going to be work for him, but, well, it always was going to be. He must have known that.

“Our mother has said as much,” Thor murmurs.

“Smart lady.”

Thor smiles, all soft at the edges, and yeah--he’s not Natasha’s type in the slightest, but she can certainly appreciate the looks. A bear to Loki’s own whipcord panther.

“About his… state—”

“He’s Jotun.”

Thor blinks at her, stunned enough he hasn’t closed his mouth. Natasha keeps her face stony, stares him dead in the eye.

“Your brother is Jotun. If you want to fix things, you need to get that figured out. He’s already sorted it out while you were gone, and it’s a work in progress, but you’re hurting him if you refuse to acknowledge that he’s Jotun, always has been, that he’s been hurt by never knowing. _You are hurting him_ , maybe not physically, but it’s never about the surface with Loki. You know that.”

“But—” Thor starts.

“If you won’t come to terms with it, then don’t even talk to him,” Natasha says flatly, let her features turn more towards ice.

Thor goes silent, and if the contemplation before was only that, now there’s the first sign of storm clouds. Maybe it’s been easier for him to consider this as a curse, as something to be undone, but it’s not going to work in the long term and he needs to know that.

“Thank you,” he finally says slowly, meeting her eyes again. “I… will give your words a great deal of thought.”

“Look up internalized racism,” Natasha suggests lightly. “It might give you somewhere to start. And how’s Friday at three sound for shopping?”

***

It is a _choice_.

This is what he keeps coming back to--it is a _choice_ , a choice to make himself a beast should he let Natasha put a collar on him--and if he does choose such (he is less and less sure he will not choose such), then why not go the entire way?

If he chooses a collar, then mustn’t he also _choose_ to be a beast? Doesn’t the very _fact_ that he must choose mean that he is _not_ a beast? That there is _nothing_ inherently beastial to being Jotun?

At the least it should be worth the attempt, and if he changes his mind, then Natasha will think nothing less of him--and Natasha will be the only one that ever knew at all that he allowed himself to be collared.

(And if she should leave, should use it against him, tell—)

He stops by a pet store on his way home.

(She would not. Will not.

This he knows like breathing.)

***

“I just want you to check out her background for me. I like her, but—”

“You don’t need another me,” Natasha finishes with a small smirk. She snags the file that Pepper slides across the table to her and gives it a quick flip through. She’ll never envy Pepper’s need for a secretary and all the investigating that goes into that.

“Exactly. How was Bucharest?”

“Stifling.” At first glance nothing pings any warnings, which just means that Natasha is going to need to do a thorough looking--no one comes off so clean at first brush. “Late August is always the worst.”

Pepper makes a face, then nods to Natasha’s phone on the table.

“Do you need to get that?”

Natasha glances at it--a text from Loki. A quick skim reveals he just wants her to stop by, and while the language is pretty innocuous, it still gives her pause. His text when he was having the panic attack also didn’t suggest urgency, and she’s hesitant to ask if he can wait in case he lies.

But no--he’s promised to tell the truth. He has told her the truth, so far as she knows.

Trust goes both ways.

She sends him a text back asking if he needs her right now. A few moments later:

_No hurry._

“It can wait,” Natasha tells Pepper. Pepper raises an eyebrow, but unlike nearly anyone else, just takes her at her word.

“You were going to say?” Natasha prompts, setting both phone and file back on the lunch table.

***

When Natasha does finally stop by, it’s starting to get dark outside and the city is beginning to light up. The view is spectacular--and would be more so if Loki hadn’t darkened the windows. She starts to go to Loki, but her eyes go more immediately to what’s sitting on the dining table against the wall to the kitchen.

Natasha walks over; Loki’s eyes don’t follow her where he’s lounging on the couch, still focused on the show that he’s watching. A quick look over proves that other than a slight tense, he isn’t waiting on her reaction. At least not with much anxiety.

Well, she supposes she did suggest the idea in the first place. He isn’t worried about being shamed by her.

It’s not a particularly fancy collar--black leather, thicker. Something she might see on a zoo cat being lead out for an exhibition or a larger breed of dog. It’s very supple; knowing leather, she knows this means Loki likely has spent some time working at it before she got here. She picks it up, turns it over in her hands. Loki is watching her now, and instead of ask the more obvious ‘ _what’s this?_ ’, Natasha considers what to say.

“Are you certain?” she asks, meeting his gaze.

There’s a flash of adoration in Loki’s eyes that she can’t miss, the gratitude she is not pretending confusion or making him explain, only picking up where they last left the conversation off at. It softens all the lines of his face before he manages to tuck it back away, and not for the first time Natasha finds herself fond of how vulnerable he is with her.

“If I choose it, then it means that I am not what it implies. That it is something I must play at,” he tells her evenly; he’s certain. Certain as he can be before they try. He’s been thinking about this, possibly since she first mentioned collaring him.

Natasha nods, looking back at the collar. She loosens it from the clasp, holds it in both hands, and considers how best to proceed.

“Come here,” she says at last, letting her voice drift a little towards the coldness he’s used to when she doms. She doesn’t bother to look up to see if he’s listened--she can hear as much--only keeps her stance relaxed and full of casual power, makes it clear that not listening is not an option.

“Kneel,” she tells him, glancing up to meet his gaze. It gets a snort from him, but she doesn’t let herself smile, and slowly the amusement fades. He kneels down, the first flicker of active trepidation as his eyes focus on the collar she’s holding on her hands. “Move your hair.”

There’s a breath of hesitation, then he sweeps his hair out of the way.

“Last chance,” Natasha tells him, and behind it she leaves all the kindness she can offer--he does not have to do this to please her, does not have to risk what he has made of himself in an act that may undo his work, does not have to become the animal that he is so often afraid that he is because he is Jotun.

Loki’s laugh is short and sharp, his grin wicked and devil-may-care as he looks up at her, red eyes gleaming cleverness and nervousness in equal measure.

“I bought it, did I not? I know my own ways out, Natasha.”

Natasha lets a brief smile touch her lips--his own reassurance offered in return.

“Okay,” Natasha says, and slips the collar around his throat.

***

As it slides into place, weight resting against his skin, the tug and fasten of the buckle, Loki stops breathing and closes his eyes. Everything running through his head in the moments before is simply _gone_ , cut off entirely in the sudden body shivering terror of what will happen _now_ —

“Nat—” he starts, then stops she presses a finger to his lips. He opens his eyes, looking up at her; she has a brow raised

( _beasts_ do not speak, not in words)

and he swallows; trembles, he realizes distantly. He’s trembling. Everything in him cannot move past the leather pressed against the skin of his throat, his pulse. Natasha slips two fingers between the collar and his throat, testing to be sure he has room to breath, and he only shakes more.

She runs her other hand through his hair, eyebrow still raised. Waiting.

He mewls, reaches up to tangle his hands in her shirt.

It’s utterly _humiliating_ , but she smiles, pleased, and—

(it’s such an _effort_ , it does not come naturally, he has to-- _how does a beast act_ , a cat that she seems to think he acts so like normally? He barely remembers, can hardly think around the weight of material at his throat, and yet he _must_ because—)

“Does Lokitty want some milk?” she asks, sickly sweet, and he makes a face, shoving away from her and nearly choking as she has not unhooked her fingers from the collar. He starts to speak, remembers himself, and instead growls his displeasure.

Natasha bursts into laughter, letting him go, and strokes his hair again. She presses a kiss to his forehead, a hand pressing against his shoulder as he goes to stand—

(beasts do not stand)

\--and he settles more fully into the mindset, starts to be able to think past the collar at his throat, to consider only what he would need and desire as a cat.

“Only teasing,” she murmurs against his skin, then lets go entirely and wanders off into the kitchen.

He hesitates a moment, then follows on all fours--attempts at grace for all he knows he looks ridiculous, and revels in the effort that this takes.

(How few thoughts there are to trouble him but the awareness of her collar, of her, of what he must do to maintain this pretense, that he is only this by choice.)

***

“What do you think?” Natasha asks him afterwards.

He searches for the words--words that grew so fleeting and distant the longer that time passed, the more he fell into the role expected of him. She always makes them so fleeting.

“It was… pleasant,” he finally says, rolling his shoulders and then his head, rubbing a little at where the leather rubbed against skin unused to any material these days.

Natasha snorts with a smirk, but she does not comment further. He raises an eyebrow, slides into her lap to peer curiously up at her face, so close their noses nearly touch.

“And you?” he asks.

“I enjoyed it,” Natasha says. “Though I wouldn’t mind keeping some of the other things that we’ve done around for other moods.”

Loki smiles, too languid to bother trying to reign in how easy it feels, how… _open_. Everything feels so… strangely soft at the edges, so calm. He feels so sure in himself now, so relaxed for the knowledge, and he cannot imagine trying to hide such confidence.

(Is _this_ what everyone else feels so often? Is this the ‘normal’ that he hears so much about?)

“Of course,” he says, and kisses her. It gets a startled breath from Natasha before she returns it, and her smile feels like a victory against his lips.

“You’ve got an appointment with Stark tonight,” she reminds.

“Is that so?” he murmurs, opening his eyes to meet her own grey. “Then I best be on my way. Shall we?”

***

This late at night, the Tower is perhaps noisier than any other time of day; typically Loki prefers to avoid it for exactly that reason, but tonight he finds himself relaxed, not minding the particular noise of all of the Avengers roaming through the halls of their headquarters.

He parts ways with Natasha soon after they arrive, restrains himself from giving Clint a lazy smile (surely that would not go over well) and wanders his way towards Stark’s lab. Away from the main rooms (a movie night of some sort in progress) it is quieter, and he finds himself listening a little fondly to the trailing noise that he is leaving behind.

(How does one manage to _maintain_ this sense of surety? Is there a trick to it? How has he never stumbled upon it before? Not even the satisfaction of a plan well-executed or spell well done ever comes _close_ to this, ever lasts for so long. And it is not solely Natasha, he does not think (could not be, for was it not _him_ that made the ultimate choice?)(how strange that he does not mind admitting that he is still not wholly behind the idea, that it does not grate—), because he has read enough to know that these things are only _validated_ by others, not _generated_ by them—

He is still mulling the thought over when he turns the last corner and sees Thor. It startles him as Thor looks up where he has been clearly waiting, and yet other than a brief irritation, there is no…

(he is _glad_ to see Thor, an instinctive _joy_ in his brother's presence, and has his brother’s mouth always been so unhappy of late? There are lines to his face that Loki does not recognize, and it’s painful to see any sign of such things on _Thor_ of all people, who has only ever born smile and laughter lines in all the time that Loki has known him.)

… no _fury_. No need to flee.

And Thor only looks at him, considers before he smiles gently. He does not uncross his arms, does not step towards Loki despite how Loki has already braced himself for such, and he finds himself slightly wary beneath his general good cheer and calm.

“Do you have a moment to talk, Loki?” Thor asks, though clearly Thor was waiting on him. Loki is well aware that Thor is not half so dense or unclever as people ( _Loki_ ) likes to make out.

Loki considers how often Stark has kept him waiting before (his curiosity that Thor is not acting the way Loki is so used to, the unhappiness and stress that touches Thor’s face) and gives a small smile.

“Why not? But perhaps not in the hallway.”

Thor smiles, still gentle, still lacking a little of its oh so golden glow.

***

They’re about fifteen minutes into the movie when Stark walks out of the elevator carrying enough food to feed the small army that is the Avengers. Natasha, curled up against Clint, immediately straightens, hitting his chin on the way, and does a headcount.

Loki hasn’t come back to the main area even though Stark has clearly not been there and Thor isn’t in the room.

Before she can say anything, Stark shoves a giant soda at her.

“I think you should sit this one out,” he says mildly, a touch of a manic grin making his eyes bright.

Clint grumbles, rubbing his face.

“I don’t know if this is all worth it,” he says. “I wasn’t planning on getting beaten up on my night off.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow as she considers them both.

“Look, if it was a bad idea, I’m pretty sure half the tower would be frozen by now,” Stark adds, settling down next to her. “Burger?”

***

They end up in a smaller meeting room--it always fascinates Loki just how many meeting rooms Stark has designed into the tower, as if he is aware that at any moment one might end up in the hallway and need to have a conversation out of it. For once, Loki finds himself leading the way, more familiar with this part of the Tower than Thor is.

It’s strange leading Thor anywhere, and it makes a little of his calm twist into tension between his shoulder blades, an itch that he cannot scratch (even if he could, it would not go away).

The room is small, which does not help, and one side entirely lined in windows that look out over the glittering sprawl that is New York at night. It makes his stomach drop for a moment before he manages to parse that it is only the city and not an endless fall of stars that cannot be reached, has him missing a step before he manages to right himself again and quickly turn away.

Only to be startled ( _again_ ) by the fact Thor had started to reach for him--and then decided _not to touch_.

What in the realms is going on? Has he found himself in another universe without noticing? Surely he is not dreaming--as much as he longs for Thor not to touch, it is only that Thor ceases doing it _without permission_ ; part of him craves it so deeply (Thor is so golden his touch makes _real_ ) that he’s never dared breathe the thought even in sleep.

“Well,” Loki says, forcing his posture casual and unconcerned, “what is it you wished to speak of?”

Thor looks away a moment, a shadow flickering across his features ( _he is going to make me go back_ , but it’s distant, a panic that he cannot fully feel, almost ridiculous--what could Thor possibly gain by such), before he looks Loki straight in the eye (ever one to face any challenge head on).

“I wish to apologize to you.”

Loki feels his mouth fall open, blinking in surprise. He closes it, tries to find something to say, but he can think of nothing at all and so asks the obvious.

“For what?”

Thor, if anything, looks even _more_ uncomfortable (humble, Loki’s brain supplies numbly, and he must check that his mouth has not fallen open again).

“For how I have treated you. Many times in the past, yes, but in particular for my treatment of you since I have returned and you were introduced--reintroduced to the Avengers. For not trying more to understand, for not listening to what you say, for— for.” Thor pauses and Loki watches in distant fascination as Thor steels himself, bringing his gaze, which has been drifting lower, up to meet Loki’s again.

(What does he see, Loki wonders, how much does it kill his golden brother to look up and meet the red eyes of a —

\--a _Jotun_.)

(He has proven today that being a beast is no more innate to him now than it was when he was wore an Aesir skin, found it pleasurable, and he refuses to call himself such ever again. He is Jotun, and he finds his posture straightening a little as Thor meets his eyes with the knowledge of it.)

“For being unwilling to accept that you were and have always been Jotun, and the harm I have caused you by that action.”

And then, while Loki tries to orient around the words, tries to process that Thor is even _aware_ of what he implied the other day, _has_ implied every time they have spoken before this moment, Thor puts a hand to his chest and kneels, full and formal apology.

Loki stares down at him, mouth open once more and too stunned to try to resolve it. He turns the words over, again and again, tries to look for what Thor stands to gain from it, tries to understand how Thor could notice, tries to understand—

That’s it, _of course_ , of course—

“Who are you? What have you done with Thor?” he demands, reaching down to pull Thor up--the imposter, because _clearly_ —

Thor gives a sad laugh, enough that the thought begins to fade away.

He is not, perhaps, the only one has been changed in the time apart. This, at least, might explain why he has not seen Thor the last few times he has visited the Tower.

Thor stands again, and his smile is so mournful that Loki cannot stand to look at it. He shoves Thor upright, straightens his clothing, and steps away again, awkward and unsure.

“What do you want from me?” Loki finally asks when it becomes clear that Thor-- _Thor_ \--is _waiting_ on _Loki_. He stares down at the lines of his hands instead of risk looking at Thor, at how even _still_ Thor has not made this about himself.

“To—” Thor pauses, then barks a dry laugh. “There is no way I can say without it being able to taken the wrong way.” He hears the rustle of Thor’s hair as he shakes his head, then Thor steps forward, hands careful as they move towards Loki’s. Loki watches, knows that in this moment if he were to pull back Thor would let him, and tries not to flinch or sink into the heat that surrounds his hands as Thor’s own wrap around them.

“Then say it anyway,” Loki says, staring at Thor’s hands and how Thor is not flinching away from the cold of Loki’s own skin.

“I miss my brother,” Thor says quietly. “And if you would wish, I would want nothing more than to have the chance--only a chance--to earn your trust once more.”

Loki laughs, shaken, and draws his hands away, steps away because he feels as if he can nearly not breathe. All of this is so much, _too much_ , and he presses still too warm hands to his face for one last ghost of Thor’s heat before it vanishes. He does not risk looking up, seeing what he must look like reflected back in Thor’s eyes, just tries to breathe around the knot quickly welling in his chest and throat, making it so he cannot speak at all.

And (wonder of wonders) Thor only waits.

“Is that all?” Loki finally asks, tries for biting but he can’t muster the venom. He glances up at Thor, meets sky blue eyes just a few shades lighter than Loki’s own skin.

“It might be easier if you tell me when I do something spectacularly wrong.” Thor smiles, rueful.

Loki laughs, sharp and a little jagged--but then, he supposes he can’t help it. This is so much ( _too much_ ) to handle at all once without being broken apart, lacks any of the care that Natasha uses to do the same.

(How like Thor--that has not changed.)

“I will see what I can do.”

There, then, is Thor’s smile, brilliant and radiant and all-consuming, brightening the cold fluorescent light of the meeting room to warmth, and it is just as sickeningly comforting turned fully upon Loki as it has ever been.

And Loki, a little unsure, gives his own slender and knife-like smile back.

***

Natasha is pretty sure that her eyebrows can’t climb any higher unless she draws them on when Thor and Loki both come in, Loki clearly still in a good mood and Thor nearly radiant instead of the kicked puppy he more normally is after a confrontation with Loki. Another quick scan over Loki as he pauses to take in where she’s sitting leaned against Clint before following to sit by… Thor and Stark? really?--only proves that he’s entirely shaken, if content with the world.

And isn’t that _interesting_.

“So what the hell did you do to him?” Clint asks quietly during a particularly loud explosion in the movie. “And how much are we going to regret it when he goes back to blowing shit up?”

Natasha shakes her head. As much as she cares about the archer, there are some things he just doesn’t need to know; at least not until he can deal with them. She suspects repeating she’s only extended Loki the same kindness Clint gave her once would make him sour, and there’s nothing about this moment she wants to sour at all.

Clint just snorts, messing her hair up in the process.

Natasha meets Loki’s eyes when he glances over at her and smiles. He’s lost in thought--or was, because it takes him off-guard. A beat, and he smiles back, small and that same confidence he had after she collared him still just beneath the surface.

She relaxes into Clint, earning another snort as Loki looks away.

“You two are gross,” he mutters.

Natasha pinches his side.

“Says the guy I’m cuddled up on.”

Clint just snorts again, arm tightening a little around her shoulders, and Natasha smiles wider.

***

It isn’t always collars--they still try new things, still sample among a wide range. She knows falling will make him panic, that knife play may be his favourite just behind anything with wax. It’s a slow map, a careful one, but it has not stopped growing despite the way collaring him does not expand it. The other play can happen at any time.

Collaring is….

Collaring him is a _center_ , maybe even _the_ center for what they do. It’s for other reasons, soothes parts of him the way that their more strictly hurt and comfort can’t touch. There’s a confidence that he takes from being collared that she finds utterly fascinating, that makes him even more attractive than he already is to her. It isn’t his pretended confidence he sometimes gets when he’s unsure--she can spot that.

He never goes under as quickly as he does when Natasha puts a collar around his throat, gives up with as little fight; a year ago-- _already?_ \-- she would never have guessed that this is what would come of her choice to take a chance on hiding him in her old safe house.

Let alone that this might ever last so long with little sign of ending any time soon.

***

He takes one step outside, nearly faints in the sudden swamp heat that is September in New York, and immediately returns back to the apartment. He’s still trying to get his breath back as he goes to the kitchen and lies down on the cool tile.

How he _hates_ this--hates how trapped he is in what Natasha calls an ‘Indian Summer.’ He does not think even _July_ was so hot.

(He should call Thor.)

(What will Thor say? Will Thor only think he is making excuses ( _that Loki does not wish_ —), will he insist on coming to Loki (he _cannot_ , no one can, this is _his_ space—

He pulls his phone out and stares at it for a few long minutes, then pulls up Thor’s number and (with only a minute tremble of hesitation) hits dial.

The ring is some ridiculous song or another-- _of course_ Thor would change the waiting rings to some song or another, or was that someone that Thor knows who did him the favour?--and he listens with growing trepidation, lets ice spread from his hand pressed flat to the floor and trails a finger over the slick spot.

“Loki?”

(Thor is so golden, even over the phone. Thor must adore this weather, the heat and wet press of it so like Thor himself.)

“It is too hot,” Loki says. He swallows before he can add anything else, any other explanations.

Thor is silent a moment, thoughts slow.

“Would rain help?” Thor asks after a while.

Loki blinks from where he has started to look for cracks on the ceiling.

“I don’t think I could make it cold without risk of hail, but rain may take some of the edge out of the heat, at least long enough for you to get here.”

“I…. perhaps.” Loki pauses. “You aren’t meant to mess with the humans’ weather.”

“Have you seen how atrocious their weather forecasters are? No one would suspect anything.”

Loki chuckles, unable to help it.

“I wasn’t aware you were willing to risk a scolding to see me.”

Thor laughs in turn.

“If it does not help, I will call,” Loki finally says.

“Then I will simply see you another day.” Thor’s cheer is forced, Loki can tell, but he is more surprised ( _delighted_ ) that Thor is not trying to push it past this, not trying to force his way into Loki’s spaces--that he is trusting Loki to know his own limits and respecting them.

 _Accepting_ that Loki being Jotun simply means _sometimes_ heat will be too much.

(What a marvel.)

“Very well,” Loki says, and he does not bother to hide his smile from his voice.

***

There’s a small collection of collars now. The first one, the only one Loki’s ever bought. A green dog collar she bought with gold metal, which Loki generally seems to dislike and so she never uses unless he’s being particularly snotty. A metal one that never gets used for very long because she hates trying to deal with the clasp after Loki’s skin has cooled it.

But these are normal. No, Natasha needs to know what to get him that will bring him to his knees--she never does anniversary presents, so it’s doubly important to get this one right.

Answer: Thor.

“So you have been together a year? Did you start… what is the word that you use here? Court? Date—”

“He wanted me to kill him,” Natasha says cheerfully and digs into her burger. Thor makes a distressed noise, chair creaking, but Natasha takes her time to chew and swallow. It’s important not to choke, after all.

“So…” Thor asks delicately after she does.

“I’m picking this for the anniversary of when neither of us died.” Natasha smiles at him. “I didn’t kill him, he didn’t kill me.”

Thor just shakes his head, looking bemused and starting to eat his fries.

“I am glad that is true then,” Thor finally says. “And so you wish to get him a gift?”

“I know what I’m getting him. The question is what it should look like--he doesn’t really buy things for himself without someone around, which means I haven’t the first clue what he’d want.”

“Because Loki is ever attentive to those with him and how he seems.”

“Exactly.”

Thor hums, frowning a little. For a few minutes, they eat in silence. Natasha’s more than happy to give Thor the time he needs to sort through Loki’s tastes; she can’t imagine that it was quickly gained.

Though maybe it was and it’s just old and half-forgotten--Thor did grow up with Loki.

The waiter has just cleared their plates away when Thor gives a quick glance over and then leans towards Natasha. Natasha has to hide a laugh, but she leans forward obligingly.

“You did not hear this from me,” Thor says. “You are clever enough Loki would believe you figured it out on your own, but if he thinks that you did not, then it was not _I_ you learned this from.”

Natasha blinks then nods.

“Swear it,” Thor says, serious.

“I swear he won’t learn from me that you told me this.”

Thor frowns at her word choice, then nods.

“Gaudy. Flashy as possible, but _not_ tacky. Well. Not quite.” Thor frowns. “He likes things that sparkle and gleam, likes best when they look rich. _Wealthy_. He enjoys looking the part of pampered prince.” Thor shakes his head, like he has no idea why that has any appeal at all--but then Thor’s idea of a good gift is a hearty brawl and beer with friends afterwards.

“So almost trashy, but not quite.”

“Yes. But _elegant_. It has to be elegant.”

Natasha smiles at Thor watching her to see if she understands or not.

“Thank you,” she says. “I think I know _exactly_ what to get.”

Thor beams.

“Most excellent. Is there any other way that I might assist you?”

Natasha thinks for a moment.

“See if he’ll go to lunch with you that day.”

Thor blinks, but nods.

“I will ask.” And that’s all Thor says he will do, which says a great deal about how things are coming along between him and Loki--that Thor knows he can’t force Loki, that Thor won’t force Loki to go just for the sake of Natasha’s surprise. It makes Natasha happy to see what progress that they’ve made since Stark helped Thor get Loki alone to apologize.

“Thanks,” she says. “Where to today?”  

***

He is, perhaps, a touch more suspicious than he thinks he should be when he gets home from a light dinner with Thor.

(But Thor has _never_ been good at keeping a surprise a, well, _surprise_.)

It is hard to be too bothered by it; whatever will happen will happen, and it is finally starting to cool enough outside that the heat is only a sticky humid and not so hot that he feels like fainting as soon as he walks outside. The trees are beginning to turn gold and red, his belly is pleasantly full of some rather delectable sushi, and soon he will have the entire night for only himself.

Perhaps it is a touch ridiculous, but it feels as if he has been needed somewhere everywhere of late, social obligations he does not want to set aside because he enjoys being able to attend them at all after the last bit of summer, but at the same time… well. It will be nice to simply rest, he can recognize that.

(Selfish as it is; not all selfishness is bad.)

The apartment is quiet when he gets in; perhaps Thor was simply smiling for another reason. It is possible. (Perhaps.) He starts to undo his shirt to pull it off, relaxing into the cool of the air conditioning, then stops as he notices that his laptop is not in fact on the coffee table.

(Did he leave it there, or the bedroom? No, he left it on the coffee table, it needed to charge--he left it on the coffee table, so _where is it_?)

“Natasha?” he calls softly, trying to dull a sharp worry that attempts to crawl into the silence. There is nothing to worry about; only she or Pepper have a key to this apartment, none of the others know where it is. (Perhaps he is misremembering.) He checks over the couch, peers into the kitchen. It’s dark there as well, a new cup on the counter.

“How was dinner?” Natasha asks from behind him.

He spins around, releasing a breath he did not realize he was holding, a smile coming to his face immediately and an answer ready on his lips--right up until his eyes see the flash of crystal dangling off one finger and his mind stops for a moment (horrified and intrigued in equal measure).

“Loki,” she prompts, and he can hear her smirk, but he still can’t quite remember what he had been planning to say because everything in him is focused on the… _collar_ hanging from her finger.

It’s _awful_. It’s atrocious and gaudy and he’s _offended_ that this is what she’s decided to get him--hundreds of small cut crystals with silver chain to create a collar he’s seen in a few older photographs of large cats on leashes, more a choker than a collar really, that catches the light no matter how little there is, entirely unsubtle and decadent and—

\--and he _adores_ it.

“I’m not normally one for anniversaries—” _that’s_ why the date has been bothering him, and has it already be— “but I thought this was too nice to pass up.”

(As if he will believe she only saw it in a shop window and decided to buy it, not had it crafted, as if such a thing would just be _laying around_.)

“That is awful,” he manages to say, but he cannot hide the tremble in his voice.

(Norns help him, but he _wants_ it. Right now, preferably.)

Natasha grins like a shark.

“Do you not want it?” She pouts a little, examining the collar. “I suppose I could take it back.” Her voice is so casual (what if she _does_ , and a part of him is ready to mourn--)

“ _Don’t_ ,” he says, then bites down on his tongue so hard he can taste blood. He manages to meet her eyes, tries to think of some way to salvage any dignity he might have had, and gives up in the face of the smile in her eyes--gentle and kind, so so aware of just what she’s done to him, and not a single grain of malice to poison the whole.

(He does not have to pretend to be more than he is--at least not always. Not with Natasha.)

“Do you want to wear it?”

This, he can try to salvage, even if the generosity might kill him.

“It is your gift, not mine--I seem to have misplaced the date, and so what you would choose to do seems the only gift I can offer in kind tonight.”

( _Yes_ , he wants to say, he’d get on his knees and beg for her if she asked, it’s so terrible and he _loves_ it, it sparkles so in the light, real cut crystal, he can tell by the way it refracts into dozens of rainbows any time it swings with the slightest movement, can picture it with a touch of ice to rim his skin and what a _sight_ he would make and it is _dizzying_ to imagine how thoroughly _owned_ —

“Mm.” Natasha hums, holding the collar up at her own eye level to give a good look, then looks up at Loki. “I suppose…”

He absolutely does _not_ hold his breath.

“Come here,” she nearly purrs, voice a low thrum in his ears, eyes half-closed and smile all too aware. She twists a hand through his hair, grabbing a fistful and nails brushing against his scalp as she looks down at him. He swallows (he barely remembers scrambling across the space and getting to his knees in front of her, just can feel the heat of her under his fingertips, pressing into his skin) and stares up at her.

“I think,” she finally says with a smile, “that you are still absolutely interesting.”

He smiles, desperation softened a little at the words and everything that they mean from her.

“You are still the most fascinating being I have ever the pleasure to know,” he replies, and ( _sentimental_ ) presses a kiss to her stomach before looking back up at her again.

Natasha laughs.

“Move your hair, Loki,” she says, her laughter still ringing her voice and turned the grey of her eyes so _warm_ , as she lets go of his hair to unclasp the collar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. That's all she wrote. I ain't got nothing else. 
> 
> I want to thank you all for hanging on for the ride; I never expected it to take a year to get to the end that I had planned last year, but woops. Looks like it did. 
> 
> I may one day get time to write the absolutely wonderfully humiliating Halloween party that Nat and Loki go to when it gets that time of year, but that's really the only story I for sure want to tell in this verse--and it's horribly self-indulgent and mostly fluff. 
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading this far and being so patient, and please let me know what you thought in a comment if you'd be so kind. <3 <3 <3


End file.
